


Legacy

by LadyLear



Category: Star Blazers, Uchu Senkan Yamato | Space Battleship Yamato (2010)
Genre: F/M, Space Battleship Yamato, Space Cruiser Yamato, Star Blazers - Freeform, Star Blazers Legacy, Starblazers, legacy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-18 09:39:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4701212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLear/pseuds/LadyLear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Star Force returns from Iscandar with their precious cargo.  It’s just the beginning.  The time to recover and rebuild is at hand.  Earth's children must emerge from their underground cities and take their place in the sun.  However, before they can move forward, they must break the ties to their shattered pasts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Homecoming

Much like the pilots of old, the landing demanded the greatest attention to detail. It was said, pilots landing on a carrier in the middle of the ocean at night exhibited greater stress and higher heart rates than when they were in battle. 

Reentering the Earth’s atmosphere was comparable. It was enough to put a pilot’s adrenaline and heart rate into overdrive. The pilot’s workload was just as high through the dicey period of coordinated deceleration, when the pilot positioned his tiny craft to endure the grueling temperatures of reentry. 

Fighters were small, lightweight, and built for stability at high air speeds in an atmosphere. They were unforgiving of careless mistakes at low reentry speeds. Thus, autopilot was not a substitute for the sharp observations of a fighter pilot if something went awry. Pilots were trained to rely on computer-generated coordinates to plot the reentry corridor, but protocol demanded they maintain their trajectory and projected angle-of-attack by hand. 

Coordinated deceleration by hand was like balancing on a tightrope for a fighter pilot. It was a delicate dance, a fragile partnership. The coordinating jets, the main engine, the ailerons, the flaps, the rudder, every control surface of the fighter was fully intertwined with the mental and physical demands of the pilot. This was all to maintain the tenuous balance and the high angle-of-attack for reentry. If the nose or a wing dipped too low, if there was a slight meander off course, it left the scantily armored topside of the fighter vulnerable to the unforgiving temperatures of reentry. 

Peter Conroy and his wingman, Jefferson Hardy, concluded a general sweep of the area around the Argo’s projected reentry corridor. Hardy confirmed the area was free of any suspicious activity. This was the signal for the crew of the Argo. It was time to begin their preparations for the countdown. They were almost home.

The small group of fighters would begin their decent before the Argo and sweep the surface of the Earth along the reentry corridor for signs of enemy activity. The Argo would follow; then another small group of fighters would watch from orbit during the Argo’s decent. 

Morale was high among the exhausted crew, but so was caution and security. This was the last leg of a tenuous, yearlong journey. Checks and balances were meticulous and repetitious. They did not come all this way to fall prey to another surprise attack, especially during a routine landing. Sometimes, careful coordination and the meticulous management of details were not enough. Mistakes occurred, and compounded quickly, despite every effort to plan for them.

 

To the casual observer, Peter Conroy appeared to have a reckless bravado when it came to flying. He seemed to have a careless confidence balanced only by sheer luck. It was how they explained his survival, considering the chances he took. The crew of the Argo admired his abilities. They knew flying was somehow second nature to him. Conroy took risks, but they were carefully calculated.

All of his senses were engaged and heightened when he was in the cockpit. His body knew the vibration of the engine. His ears knew the whirring pitch of the instruments. His hands knew the proper responsiveness of the controls. He knew them so well, he could pinpoint a failing instrument before it displayed external signs of fatigue. It was unnerving to his mechanics; they often accused him of having some sort of psychic ability.

Conroy would smile at the prodding. “These fighters are talking all the time,” he would say, “It’s just a matter of learning how to listen.”

He often kept his cockpit pressurized and his helmet faceplate retracted, so he could hear and smell the environment around him. His basic flight training warned of the dangers of explosive decompression during battle. Conroy and Wildstar often argued the point. Wildstar was against the pressurized cockpit during flight. Conroy compromised and didn’t pressurize his cockpit during battle. On long patrols, however, he insisted it was essential for maintaining the health of the fighter. Instruments and gauges couldn't account for everything that could go wrong.

This long-held argument between them went on for months during the mission. That is, until Conroy complained of an odd, burning smell inside the cockpit after a long patrol. The mechanics went over the fighter, trying to detect the burning smell themselves. They targeted the usual suspects, such as electrical conduit, burning insulation, faulty fuses or burned out LED’s, but they found nothing that would generate the burning smell Conroy described.

Conroy insisted they go over the fighter again. The chief mechanic spoke at length with Conroy. It wasn’t electrical and it wasn’t burning insulation. It was something he hadn’t encountered before. The Chief eyed him with some hesitation. Then, reluctantly, he made the next sweep. 

The cockpit of the fighter was dissected with great precision. Panels, instruments, handfuls of wire, even the ejection seat decorated the floor of the maintenance hanger. The flight crew could hardly approach the fighter without stepping on a piece of it. 

Conroy remained involved in the entire process at the expense of sleep. He perched himself in his disconnected ejection seat, inspecting parts for damage and inquiring after the mechanics about the function of things he hadn’t seen before. Because he was in his element, time slipped by without effort. 

It was much later when the Chief emerged from the cockpit and asked Conroy to stand up from the ejection seat. The Chief turned the seat over and immediately found curious holes melted in the bottom panel. He had found similar damage in the floor of the cockpit between the fittings for the ejection seat. The source of the problem was finally discovered after the damaged panel of the seat was removed. 

The ELT, or the Emergency Locater Transmitter, was an important element in the survival of a downed pilot. It was simple and reliable technology. Thus, it was never redesigned for the harsh realities of working in the vacuum of space. In an effort to rapidly design and build a fighter, which could compete with a strange new enemy, this tiny factor was overlooked. 

The ELT was a self-sufficient unit attached under the ejection seat. When the ejection seat was activated, so was the emergency beacon. It guided rescue personnel to the location of the pilot. Otherwise, it remained dormant, snugly enclosed in the insulated wiring which was essential for the separation of the ejection seat from the fighter. 

The chief mechanic was horrified to discover the essential wiring under the ejection seat was compromised by battery acid from the ruptured cells of the ELT. Conroy was right, the burning smell was not electrical; it was chemical.

The ELT was not checked during a pilot’s preflight. The mechanics were responsible for checking its condition during regular maintenance inspections, which occurred every 50 hours of flight time. It was buried, difficult to access, and difficult to inspect. It could be easily missed. After removing the unit, they presented it to Conroy and stared at him, uncertain of what to say. 

Conroy smiled at them and scratched the back of his head as he often did when he was embarrassed. “Well,” he said, as if he had surprised himself, “How about that?”

The chief mechanic called an emergency meeting with the maintenance personnel; the rest of the fighters were checked by the next morning. Four more faulty ELT’s were found. Six others were on the verge of failure. 

The story was circulated among the rest of the crew at mealtime, and Hardy was reminded of his Granddaddy’s hunting dogs. He jabbed Conroy in the ribs with his elbow. “Well there, Bird Dog, I’m glad that big snoz of yours is good for sumthin!” To Conroy’s dismay, the nickname stuck.

Wildstar never argued with Conroy again about pressurizing his cockpit. In fact, Wildstar began to pressurize his own cockpit on long patrols. He learned to put more faith in his senses as well as in the skills of his capable squadron leader.

He didn't argue with Conroy when he exchanged fighters with a less experienced pilot in the squadron. The young pilot’s fighter was severely damaged in battle. It couldn’t be fully restored with the dwindling resources on the Argo. 

Wildstar suggested the fighter and the pilot should be grounded, but Conroy insisted what remained of the squadron was required for an appropriate sweep before the Argo’s reentry. Conroy offered to fly the damaged aircraft himself, implying his skill could compensate for any problems that might arise. Wildstar didn't argue.

Wildstar later wondered if he made a mistake with his final decision. Things might have been different.

 

The spacecraft made it through the critical phase of the decent with only minor handling flaws. It was his wingman’s voice over the radio, bringing his attention to the smoke trailing from his right wing.

“Tango Leader, you’re bleed’n smoke at your six.” Hardy’s voice was the first to break the tense static of the radio.

Conroy strained to look over his shoulder. He could see the smoke trail, but the source was underneath him. Conroy’s eyes darted over his instruments. He had normal indications across the board. “Fuel check, Tango One,” he said on the open mike.

“Eighty percent,” Hardy responded.

“Oxygen check, Tango One,” Conroy said.

“Seventy-five percent, Tango Leader.”

Conroy verified his own levels against Hardy’s. They were within range. He assumed the lines to his critical resources were still intact. 

“We should break formation and troubleshoot, Conroy,” Hardy said.

Conroy paused before responding, quickly running through his options in his head. Hardy used his name rather than Conroy’s call sign in his last transmission to emphasize his concern. He knew Hardy was right. Conroy shook his head in frustration. His decision might cost them two fighters during the descent instead of one. “Tango Two, take the lead and cover the Argo’s critical descent.” Tango Two responded with a double-tap on his mike and began to ease into the lead position.

Conroy broke formation with the squadron and Hardy followed. Once they were at a safe distance, Hardy made a pass below Conroy’s spacecraft and attempted to assess the damage. 

“There’s a rupture in the heat shield,” Hardy said. “I think it’s the insulation that’s burn’n. There’s no visible fire.”

Conroy sighed with relief. His experience told him the heat of reentry had weakened and cracked the heat shield on the belly of the fighter. There was still a level of protection between the heat shield and the fuel lines. If the crack was minor, and he hadn’t lost a large section, he might still be in shape for an underground landing. 

Conroy’s fighter was simply a glider during the critical phase of decent. The engine was dormant until it was time to maneuver in Earth’s gravity. If the engine was damaged, targeting an underground hanger for a landing was dangerous for both him and the hanger personnel. He knew he would have to manage a controlled crash on the radioactive surface of Earth. It was a worst-case scenario. One he hoped to avoid.

“Give me some space, Hardy,” Conroy said, as he recalled his flame-out procedures.

Hardy maneuvered his fighter away from Conroy’s. Giving him distance to engage the engine. Standard procedure was to glide as long as they could to conserve fuel. In this case, if a problem arose, altitude would give him time to troubleshoot. 

The familiar shriek of the engine shook Conroy’s body in the cockpit. It was a welcome sound. His eyes darted quickly across the engine instruments, carefully checking for anomalies: temperature, pressure, and fuel flow. The gauges suddenly came to life and settled at their familiar indications.

Conroy was aware of a soft flash in his peripheral vision. Hardy engaged his own engine to stay level with him. He knew Hardy was watching him carefully, scanning the exterior of his fighter, looking for external signs of stress. 

Conroy eased the throttle forward, slowly. The engine power increased and the fighter began to gain altitude. Hardy followed his lead.

Conroy smiled. Tension released from his body. The instruments indicated normal engine performance. However, more than the instruments, he relied upon what he felt. The vibrations of the engine, the sound of the motorized flaps as they moved, the responsiveness of the controls, they all had the familiar feel of a healthy fighter. 

Conroy smiled sheepishly at Hardy through the weathered haze of his canopy, feeling a little foolish for his heightened cautiousness. Hardy seemed eased by his demeanor and smiled back. Conroy laughed out loud with relief and Hardy joined in. 

The explosion was a surprise. There was no warning. Conroy’s fighter disappeared into flames.

 

Conroy’s fighter was spinning. He heard Hardy’s voice screaming his name over the radio. Conroy was too busy to answer. ‘It must have looked bad from out there,’ Conroy thought. ‘It’s starting to look bad in here.’ His training took over and his hands went through his emergency procedures before his brain could completely grasp the situation. 

‘Reduce engine output,’ he thought and pulled back on the throttle, but he suddenly realized he couldn’t hear the engine. He tried maneuvering to stop the spin. ‘Rudder, ailerons… ailerons…’ he thought. “Ailerons!” He shouted, but the controls were unresponsive. Against the increasing gravity of the spin, he turned his head to check the condition of the right wing. It was gone. 

Thoughts of his family flashed through his head. The names of the dead were sent to Earth as soon as they established regular communication. His own family would be expecting him, waiting for him at the Argo’s landing site. There would be no warning for them. 

‘The irony,’ he thought, ‘if I bought it here, today… the very last day of the mission… what a mess!’ 

He reached for the ejection handle at the base of his seat. With both hands, he pulled hard. He shut his eyes, pressed his head against the headrest of the seat, and crossed his arms over his chest. 

He heard the explosive bolts of the canopy blow and the violent hiss of the jets under the seat. He felt the shelter of the cockpit fall away from him. A furious rush of air buffeted his flight suit. There was a momentary sense of weightlessness, then a nauseating sensation of a spinning decent. 

Suddenly, a sharp, explosive sound. Blackness, then silence.

 

Wildstar wandered through the clamoring sea of people. He pushed passed embracing families and tearful reunions. His lack of emotion was a drastic contrast to those surrounding him. That’s what made him stand out. 

Venture yelled out to him from a distance, waving him over. His little brother’s hand was in his. Wildstar knew Venture wanted him to meet his younger brother, but Wildstar held up his hand. He didn’t smile. The smile on Venture’s face faded and he nodded. 

Venture distracted his little brother by pointing in another direction, “C’mon, Jordy, I see Sandor over there!” 

Wildstar didn’t find who he was looking for until she found him. She stood silent and still among the crowd of excited people. Her eyes locked on him as soon as he appeared, almost as if she anticipated his arrival. 

There was no emotion about her or the young man standing next to her. Any hope or excitement had settled into a silent anxiousness. The young man was looking above the crowd, carefully scanning faces, but the young woman’s eyes maintained a guarded stare. 

The noise of the crowd abated between them, receding like water into the sea. Wildstar had never met her, but somehow she seemed to know who he was. 

Without breaking her gaze from him, she raised a hand and touched the young man on the arm. The young man looked down at her then followed her eyes to Wildstar. They waited for him to make his way to them.

Wildstar swallowed hard, his mind racing, trying to piece together what he would say to them. He remembered lying down on Conroy’s bunk, where he could see the assortment of photographs Conroy posted on the wall and on the bottom of bunk above his. Conroy sat on Wildstar’s bunk across the narrow walkway and they shared stories about their siblings. 

Conroy was the only one that could draw out a story about Alex without any effort. Conroy would recall something about his own brother and suddenly Wildstar’s pleasant memories of Alex would return. Before Wildstar knew it, he was sharing a story with Conroy. It was easier to forget the grief of his brother’s loss when they spoke of good times before the bombings.

Confronted with Conroy’s family now, he felt as if he knew them. Strangely, it didn’t seem to make things any easier.

Cory was the image of his brother in his cadet’s uniform. There was no denying the relation. The same strong jaw-line, the same lean build. He was tall, like his brother. Even the way he stood was familiar. His shoulders back, his head held high with a striking confidence undiminished by his youth. 

Jessica had the soft, delicate look of her mother. Her blond hair was swept back from her face into a long braid. She was tall and thin, a contrast to the masculine build of her brothers, but the confidence of her demeanor was no less obvious. When Wildstar reached them, he noticed the eyes that studied him so carefully were a striking blue. 

“Jessica? Cory?” Wildstar began carefully, meeting their eyes as he spoke their names.

“Is he alive?” Jessica asked, before he could say anything else. Wildstar sensed she suppressed the trembling in her voice.

Wildstar hesitated. Although he knew very little, he was ready for a carefully crafted explanation. In his surprise he could only utter, “I don’t know.” 

“Where is the medevac?” She asked softly, with an oddly surreal calmness. 

Wildstar pointed the way, quite shocked at her grasp on the situation. He was much more prepared for an emotional wreck.

“I’m going with you,” Cory said to Wildstar, but Jessica halted him with a gentle touch.

“No, I need you to get the medical staff together. We need a trauma specialist… We might need a surgeon.” She grasped his arm and leaned into him. “Tell Doctor Randal to stand by before he starts celebrating. Tell him who it is.” She paused a moment, biting her lip as she thought. 

Wildstar was relieved. Her voice was low and steady. She had no intention of startling the people around them. 

“Cory?” She said, “If he’s injured, he’s going to need whole blood. A lot of it.”

Cory nodded at his sister and threw Wildstar a quick salute as he started to back away. “Sir!”

Wildstar quickly saluted back; he then watched Jessica pick up the tattered, leather backpack at her feet. She threw it over one shoulder and looked at Wildstar expectantly. “Let’s go,” she said and brushed passed him.

He hesitated again, still in shock over her measured reaction. Part of him tried to understand what had just happened. The other part decided to follow her without question. He spun around and moved quickly to catch up with her.

To Be Continued

Chapter 2 – Aftermath  
Crashing on the radioactive surface of Earth is not the homecoming Peter Conroy had in mind. It's a race against the golden hour to save him.


	2. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crashing on the radioactive surface of Earth is not the homecoming Peter Conroy had in mind. It's a race against the golden hour to save him.

He was suddenly aware of a raw, metallic taste in his mouth. It was so strong he tasted it before the blood. He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry and swollen, like it was coated in dust. 

Peter Conroy tried to open his eyes, but only one would open. His vision was blurred. He could see a jagged crack down the faceplate of his helmet. It was outlined in streaks of blood. 

Where was the blood coming from? The other eye, he thought. 

Over the static and the distant voices of the com-link he could hear his own breathing. It was a struggle. His breaths were short and shallow. Peter tried to lift his head, but a sharp pain shot down his spine. He moved more carefully the second time. 

The parachute from his ejection seat billowed gently in the thermals, its chameleon-like skin continuously changing and blending with the color of the earth around it. He stared and marveled in its beauty for a moment as his eye adjusted. 

He was aware he was sitting upright, but slightly tilted to his left. He was slumped, as much as his chair restraints would allow. The restraints were tight and they felt painfully constricted against his chest. He lifted a hand to his chest and fumbled for the buckles. He clumsily hit the release and the belts loosened. He pushed them away and allowed his body to fall with the angle of the ejection seat. 

He screamed and caught himself with an extended arm before he slid to the ground. The sudden movement shot pain throughout his body. It was excruciating, but the pain meant his extremities were still with him. 

Leaning on his left arm, he took a moment to recover, trying to gather his strength. He stared at the orange, powdery surface of the Earth around him. Such an ugly color, he thought, but he had never been so happy to see it in his young life. 

He grasped a fistful of it in his hand. He lifted it to his face and opened his fingers. The dry, dusty substance scattered in the wind. He spread his fingers and the sand slid between them. It was dry, lifeless, completely unwelcoming, but it was still home. 

He let the rest of the substance slowly drain from his palm. ‘It’s alright now,’ he thought. ‘We’re going to fix it. You’ll see. Just don’t be too hard on me right now.’

He could hear frantic voices and static in his ears. He could hear someone calling his name, but the ringing in his ears was much louder. The voices seemed distant and surreal. It didn’t occur to him to answer. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew they were coming for him, so he wanted to be on his feet when they arrived. 

Adrenaline took over, numbing the pain. Peter straightened himself and got to his knees, then brought a leg forward. Each movement was slow and grueling. He pressed his hand against his knee and pushed himself up, gritting his teeth as the movement washed him in pain. His eyes blurred and a spinning sensation overtook him. He caught himself before he tipped over. He straightened his body and with an ingrained professionalism, he brushed the dust from the arms of his uniform. 

He touched his holstered firearm at his right side, confirming it was still with him. He paused and shook his head, attempting to clear his fading vision, but the sudden movement upset his fragile equilibrium. He caught himself once more. 

‘That was a mistake,’ he thought. ‘Don’t fall. You might not make it back up.’ 

His first step forward was hesitant and unsteady. They were expecting him, waiting for him, he thought. This gave him a sense of urgency and it drove him forward. 

Strangely, he had no particular destination in mind, no direction. Something told him to get up and move. Something he remembered about head injuries. 

‘The brain flops to one side of the skull and starts to turn purple,’ he thought. ‘Was that a joke or was it for real?’ He couldn’t remember. He knew he was exhausted. His body wanted to shut down, to slip peacefully into unconsciousness. He knew he couldn’t let it happen. Sleeping was bad. ‘Don’t fall asleep,’ he thought and he laughed softly, ‘you might wake up dead.’

There was more confidence, more determination, in his next step. The step after that one was automatic. Soon, it was one steady step after another. 

He had to stay conscious. He had to move. He had to keep breathing. One unsteady step at a time. One hard-fought breath after another. 

He stood in the shadows of the high, rocky outcrops surrounding him. A chill went through him and his body shuddered. He longed to be in the sunlight. The sun was in the distance, slowly descending toward a flat and lifeless horizon. A long stretch of desolation lay before him. He moved into it, seeking the familiar warmth of a sun he had not seen in nearly a year. 

 

________________________________________

 

“Doc?” The shuttle pilot stood on the ramp of the shuttle. He looked at Jessica in surprise as she approached. “They paged you? I thought you were………”

She didn’t meet his eyes and she offered no explanation as she jogged up the ramp, “Afternoon, Jason!”

The confused pilot watched after her as she entered the shuttle. 'She's not on duty,' he thought. 'What is she doing here? Her brother is landing with the...' It took a moment for things to register, for the pieces to fall into place. “Oh…” Jason said out loud, but before he could raise the obvious objection to an unauthorized civilian on a military transport, he found himself nose-to-nose with a tall, intimidating, and angry figure in uniform.

“Do you have led feet, Soldier?” The young man yelled. 

“Sir! No, Sir!” Jason jumped and snapped to attention.

“Are you waiting for an invitation, or are you going to do your job?”

“Yes, Sir! Do my job, Sir!” He hesitated as he watched the soldier grab two helmets from the general supply closet. “I’m sorry, Sir… You are…?”

The officer tossed a helmet to Jessica then looked back at him. “Your worst nightmare if you don’t get this boat in the air!” 

Jason stared at him, wide-eyed. He lifted a hand to the ramp control without breaking his shocked gaze and pressed the button. The ramp began to close.

“Hey!” A medic made a running leap for the closing ramp, a bag pressed firmly to his chest. He stumbled into the shuttle, nudged forward by the increasing angle of the ramp. “What’s the deal?”

Jason transferred his wide-eyed stare to the new passenger and whispered, “Run, Joe! Baaaaad ju ju! Run for your life!”

“We need saline!” Jessica said as she inspected one of the supply trunks.

“Here, Doc,” the medic tossed her the bag, “there are some syringe guns and endotracheal tubes in there too.”

She caught the bag and dropped it at her feet; she knelt to unload the plastic bags of clear liquid.

“Epinephrine?” She asked.

“Top compartment on your left,” Joe replied. “We have an audience?” He glanced back at Jason with a perplexed look.

“You have a crew!” The officer snapped as he planted himself in one of the shuttle's passenger seats and donned his helmet. It was obvious to Jason that the officer was in no mood for explanations and he suspected Jessica felt the same.

“Yes, Sir.” The medic threw their passenger a quick salute. 

“Told you!” Jason mouthed and the ramp whined and hissed as the shuttle sealed and began to pressurize. 

________________________________________

 

“What’s the word, Jason?” Jessica asked, still stocking the supply trunk.

The pilot moved briskly to the front of the shuttle, touching her shoulder as he passed. “A fighter broke up on reentry. We have the coordinates and visual confirmation of the crash site. The ejection seat beacon is intermittent.”

“There was an ejection?” Jessica paused.

Wildstar watched her as she briefly closed her eyes, and released a trembling breath. ‘At least there was separation from the fighter before it crashed,’ he thought. Wildstar knew an intermittent beacon meant a damaged ejection seat, possibly a damaged pilot. Certainly, Jessica knew it too. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he climbed into the shuttle’s left seat. “His wingman and most of the squadron are still circling. They think they have the location.” 

“Has there been any communication from the pilot?” Joe asked as he sat down in the right seat of the shuttle’s cockpit. 

Wildstar saw the pilot glance at Jessica. She was distracted with pulling on her helmet. He answered his copilot with a brief shake of his head then went back to his work, setting his instruments for launch.

Jessica dropped into a chair across from Wildstar. She donned her shoulder harness and seat belt as she slid the empty bag under her seat with the heel of her boot. 

Jason glanced back to make sure his passengers were seated and buckled. The familiar spooling sound of the auxiliary power unit filled the interior of the shuttle. Jason radioed their intent to Control and he was given immediate clearance. The vessel vibrated then shuddered with the roar of the engines. 

They ascended quickly from the underground launch site. When they were free from the launch tube, the rays of the sun flooded through the windows, bathing Jessica in its golden light. She closed her eyes, briefly squinting against it. Wildstar took the opportunity to study her. 

Strands of her hair had fallen loose from her braid and were caught in the soft stream of her breath. They floated near her face, illuminated in the sunlight. Wildstar recalled her likeness from Conroy’s photographs. The young woman before him now was thinner and more weathered than what he remembered. Her delicate frailty was lovely nonetheless, but she looked very tired. Fear and heavy responsibility placed on the shoulders of one so young had taken their toll. 

It occurred to Wildstar at that moment, although it had always been in the back of his mind, life had been difficult in their absence. The people they left behind were not just waiting for their return, they were trying desperately to survive! He was suddenly struck by the frightening reality. ‘This is just the beginning,’ he thought. ‘Returning to Earth was just the beginning for all of them.’ 

The radio crackled to life in their helmets, and Jessica suddenly opened her eyes. She caught Wildstar’s eyes on her before he could avert them. He felt the heat rise in his face as he blushed. He was grateful when Jason’s voice broke through the hiss of the static and diverted Jessica’s attention. 

“Message from Doctor Randal,” Jason said, “his trauma team is ready. Contact them when you have an update. You owe him a drink.”

________________________________________

 

To Be Continued

Chapter 3 - Requiem  
They call her Doc. Can Jessica live up to her nickname when it comes to her own brother? Surviving a crash landing on the radioactive surface of Earth is one thing, surviving the injuries is another. Jessica races against the golden hour, desperately trying to find her brother before its too late.


	3. Requiem

 

The dust from the shuttle's jet wash swirled thick in the air, obscuring critical visibility from the windows.  Jessica hit the release on her belts and pulled them away.  She was on her feet before the shuttle settled to the earth.  She made long strides to the back of the shuttle, steadying herself by grasping the handlebars along ceiling.  She reached the rear hatch and smacked the control button with the palm of her hand, repeating the action in rapid succession, as if it would make the hatch descend faster.

She couldn't move fast enough.  Wildstar's voice was faint behind her.  The words he spoke didn't register with her.  She ran up the ramp and jumped over the edge before it could descend completely.

She was the first to reach the wreckage of the ejection seat.  The parachute billowed eerily in the dusty clouds stirred by the shuttle.  Jessica knelt briefly before the ejection seat.  She quickly took in important details of the scene:  the undamaged belt release, the faint impressions of boots and hands in the sand, the small pool of dried, blackened blood in the dust.   

She heard Wildstar’s voice behind her as she stood and surveyed their surroundings.  “We should split up and go in different directions.”

Jessica didn’t answer.  Her eyes fixed on a row of faint impressions in the dust.  They were quickly disappearing with the constant movement of the sand in the wind, but to Jessica, they held promise.  She began to walk, following tentative signs of life, silently oblivious to the other members of her team.    

 

* * *

 

It was some distance from the site of the ejection seat before she found him.  He was an impressive, but ragged, silhouette in the rays of the descending sun.  He stood with a supportive hand against a rocky outcrop.  His back was to her.  He faced the sun.  The wind and the dust swept over him, illuminating the rays of the sun until, from a distance, he appeared almost apparitional. 

Jessica caught her breath.  She wanted to call out to him.  She wanted to run to him and throw her arms around him, but she didn’t.  There was an obvious unsteadiness about him, but his confidant presence was a stark contrast to his battered condition.  ‘He's on his feet,’ Jessica thought.  ‘He's standing!’  She caught herself smiling.

She approached him with a quiet reserve, stepping carefully up the rise.  The warmth of the sun embraced her.  She tried to steadied herself, as if she could do anything about her own trembling.  With gentle regard she placed her hand on his back and stood next to him. 

“Jessica,” he said to her and she was suddenly aware she had not heard him speak her name in almost a year.  “I knew you’d find me.”  His voice was weak and raspy, and he was struggling to catch his breath.  “Just… just like when we were kids.”

“I knew all of your hiding places back then,” she said softly, managing a brief smile for him.  A tangle of joy and anxiousness rose within her, but she forced it down, fighting it back before it overwhelmed her.  ‘Calmly,’ she thought. ‘Stay sharp.  You have work to do.’

“I’m sorry I’m late…” Peter shifted uncomfortably with pain, “There was a little accident.”

“You’re not late, Peter.  You’re just in time.”  Jessica swallowed hard, then with a hesitant hand she reached for his face.  She took her brother’s chin in her hand and gently urged him to look at her.  He self-consciously turned his head away from her, attempting to hide his wounds.  Jessica knew this was not how he wanted his little sister to see him.

Jessica persisted, touching his chin again and turning his burns toward her.  She studied them with a composed objectivity, trying to seem undisturbed by the extent of the damage.  Beneath the shattered remains of his faceplate, his face was burned and swollen.  Spatters of dried blood obscured the left half of his face.  She could see charred and blackened skin.  His left eye was bloody and swollen shut. 

Peter leaned into the rocky outcrop beside him for support.  With careful, steady hands, she lifted the faceplate.  She put her other hand against her brother’s right cheek.  Even in the heat of the sun, Peter’s skin was cold and strikingly pale.  There was a slight blue tint to his lips.  She knew he was lacking oxygenated blood.

‘It could have been much worse,’ she thought.  ‘The collision could have broken his neck.’  She silently gave thanks for the condition he was in and for the hard head, which came standard with every Conroy male.

Jessica moved her hands from his face to his neck.  She searched for his pulse.  It was rapid, weak, and thready.  She gently moved her hands about his shoulders and arms, feeling for bruising and fractures.  Leaning in close to him, she moved her arms under his so her hands could feel his back.  She suddenly felt his arm around her.  He gently pulled her into a strong embrace.

She was quiet and still, allowing herself to be held in the silence.  Joy rose within her, but so did fear.  He was cold.  She could feel his rapid, shallow breaths, his trembling, his body’s struggle to overcome its rapidly failing systems.  She caught her breath and fought back her tears, pulling away from him before she was overwhelmed.

Jessica looked down at her hand.  There was fresh blood on her glove.  Her eyes widened when she found the source; a serrated piece of shrapnel lodged firmly in the left side of her brother’s abdominal cavity.   

Peter followed Jessica’s eyes to his abdomen.  “Oh,” he said quite calmly, “That doesn’t belong there.”  He brought up his right hand and wrapped his fingers firmly around the jagged protruding piece of steel.  She knew he had every intention of giving it a good yank. 

“No, no, no!”  Jessica exclaimed, grabbing Peter’s wrist.  “We should let the surgeon take care of that.”  Jessica said softly, desperately trying to control the anxiousness in her voice. 

“But it needs to go back into the fighter.”  Peter’s words faded into his shallow breaths.  “He’s not gonna’ know where it goes.”

Jessica grabbed Peter’s arm.  She didn’t speak until his eyes met hers.  “Don’t touch it, Peter!  Do you understand?  Don’t try to pull it out!”  The tone of her voice was enough to emphasize the seriousness of the situation.  Peter nodded gravely. 

It was the first rule of triage; pieces of shrapnel protruding from the human body must remain where they imbedded themselves.  Pulling them out often caused more damage than the brutal act of going in.  The last thing Peter needed was additional internal bleeding.  Jessica knew his head wound was impairing his ability to make sound decisions.

Jessica inspected his chest above the entry wound.  The seal of the flight suit was shredded.  There were small rips in the material on his chest and left arm.  There was fresh blood on his skin, evidence of shrapnel entry. 

“You’re trying to catch your breath, Peter!  Are you having chest pains?  Does it hurt when you breathe?”  Peter responded with a nod. 

Jessica knelt in front of him, carefully assessing his legs for broken bones.  “Can you tell me about the accident, Peter?  Do you remember what happened?  Did you black out?”  Jessica paused, realizing he could not keep up with her rapid-fire questioning.  She looked up at him.  He was watching the sun ease gently upon the horizon.  “Peter?”  Jessica said softly as she stood again. 

“It’s been more than a year since I’ve seen the sun set,” Peter said softly.  “I miss the sun.”

Jessica touched his arm gently.  Her voice was soft.  Her words trembled.  “Me too,” she paused for a moment.  “That’s why you left the ejection seat?”

He nodded, “I think so.  It was warmer.”

Jessica’s fingers tightened around his arm.  “I need to know if you blacked out, Peter.  Please tell me.”

He shifted again, “I remember the ejection, but that’s all.  I…”

Jessica felt him sway.  She stepped in close to him, attempting to steady him, but his knees suddenly buckled beneath him.  He grabbed the outcrop for support, but the stones broke loose in his hand.  Jessica threw her arms around him, but the weight of him prevailed and they hit the ground on their knees.

“Medevac team, this is Jessica Conroy.  I found the pilot!”  Jessica’s voice sounded small and frail in the static of the radio.  “I need a stretcher up here!”

“Where are you?”  Wildstar replied.

“No stretcher,” Peter said, “I’m walking to the shuttle.”

Jessica opened her mouth to speak, but Peter interrupted her, “I’m walking.” 

Wildstar’s voice came again, followed by Jason’s.  They were both calling her name.  Jessica imagined them frantically darting about, searching the horizon for them.

“Peter, I think you’re hemorrhaging internally!  You’re very shocky right now!”  Jessica paused, hoping to provoke a response from him.  “The mission is over!  You’ve done your job!  Let me do mine!”

“My legs aren’t broken.  I don’t want to be carried,” he said calmly.  There was a sudden clarity and determination in his eye and it said, 'the decision is final'.  “I want to walk back to the shuttle.  Please help me.”

Jessica shook her head, looking down at the ground.  She was torn and frustrated.  Most of all, she hated it when he asked nicely.  He knew it was much harder for her to tell him no.

“Jessica, we’re coming to you!  Where are you?”  Wildstar’s voice was stronger than before.

“Negative,” Jessica finally replied on the open mike, then she and her brother looked at each other, “we’re coming to you.”

Peter tried to smile at her, but she didn’t smile back.  Jessica knew she was wasting her time trying to argue with her brother.  Once Peter was set on something, it was impossible to change his mind.  Her most immediate concern was to get him away from the hostile environment of Earth’s surface. 

“Thank you.”

“Don’t be nice to me.  I’m angry at you right now.”  She positioned herself under his right arm.  She felt his soft, familiar laugh.  She was suddenly struck by how much she missed it.

“Aren’t you always angry at me for something?”

“I’m your sister!”  She carefully positioned her left arm around his body for support.  “It’s my right to always be angry with you.  Are you ready?”  He nodded. 

They both stood carefully.  She heard him strain with the movement.  She knew he was gritting his teeth against the pain.  It was almost more than she could take.   

“Are you all right?”  Jessica asked and Peter nodded quickly.

“Let’s go!”  He replied sharply and she knew he wanted to move before he changed his mind.

“Joe!”  Jessica called the medic on the open mike.  She tried to sound calm and steady when she spoke, but her voice trembled.  She struggled with the weight of her brother against her shoulders.  “We have definite head trauma here.  Peripheral cyanosis, with chest pains and labored breathing!  Prep the saline and the body scanner, please.”

 

It took some time for the two of them to reach the proximity of the shuttle.  They tried to move carefully through the uneven terrain.  Wildstar spotted them first as they topped a nearby rise.  He rushed to them.  He took Conroy’s other arm and pulled it over his shoulders. 

“Watch that shrapnel in his side!”  Jessica shouted.

“I see it!  What happened?  Why didn’t you let us bring a stretcher?”

“Peter wanted to walk.”  Jessica breathed hard from her exertion. 

“Walk?”  Wildstar glanced at both of them, hoping for an additional explanation.

“It’s… it’s a nice day for a walk,” Peter said softly between hard fought breaths.     

Wildstar smiled and shook his head.  It was just like Conroy to stay on his feet as long as he could, even if it meant fending off the medics.  “You certainly have a flare for the dramatic, don’t you?”

“Hey,” Conroy rasped, “any landing you can walk away from…”

Wildstar laughed.  “No, I think this is going to be a bad landing any way you look at it!”

By the time they reached the ramp of the shuttle the equipment was prepped.  Peter continued to be difficult.  He insisted on sitting up in a chair, rather than reclining in the gurney, arguing it would be harder to catch his breath in a prone position.   

Wildstar knew Jessica was losing her patience with her brother.  She finally raised her voice to him.  “You’re going to lay down, shut up, and let me do my job!  If you don’t, I will knock you out and intubate!  Got it?”

For a brief moment, Wildstar wanted to smile.  The scene reminded him of a feisty young mother arguing with her teenage son.  He didn’t know what intubate meant, but it didn’t sound pleasant.   

Peter must have been thinking the same thing.  He couldn’t help a sarcastic reply, “Yes, Mother!”   

Wildstar didn’t realize he was smiling out loud until Jessica glared at him and snapped.  “What are you grinning at?”

Wildstar forced the smile from his face.  He shook his head, innocently dismissing the question as they carefully eased Peter onto the gurney.  Wildstar watched Jessica remove Peter’s helmet and inspect the wounds to his face and head.  She placed an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose.

The familiar whine and hiss of pressurization echoed in the background.  The thick clouds of dust slowly retreated into the filtration system.

Jessica handed Wildstar a pair of surgical scissors.  “Cut away his flight suit!  Be careful around the open wound!”  She stood and lowered the vital statistics scanner from the wall and started flipping switches. 

The medic hung the saline bag and started to prepare the intravenous needle.  “Clear an arm for me.”  He said to Wildstar.

Wildstar pulled off Peter’s flight gloves and started cutting open the sleeve of his flight suit.  Then he pulled at Peter’s shirt and began cutting from the bottom.   He met Peter’s one good eye and gave him a reassuring smile.

“You know, Wildstar.” Peter said, as he pulled the oxygen mask from his face, “I don’t want to alarm you, but I’m getting a little aroused here.”

Wildstar’s reassuring smile pursed into a painful smirk.  He tried hard not to laugh out loud.  The absurdity of the situation was apparent to both of them.  He took the scissors and pointed them at Peter’s face.  “You are a sick man!  I am going to assume that’s the bump on your head talking.”  Wildstar tried to maintain a serious demeanor and went back to cutting away Peter’s flight suit.

The medic just shook his head.  “Be still!” He said to Peter. “I am trying to find a vein!”

Peter laughed, his crooked smile still bearing his familiar mischievous flare.  “Derek,” he said between quick, shallow breaths,  “I never noticed what lovely eyes you have!”

They both started to laugh out loud.  “Shhhhhh!  Quit it!”  Wildstar said, “You’re going to get me in trouble!”  Jessica suddenly smacked him on the back of the helmet from her standing position.  The helmet slipped forward on Wildstar’s face.  “See?”  Wildstar said to Peter, the crooked angle of the helmet covering one eye. 

Peter’s body shook with weakened laughter.  “She’s got ears like a bat!” 

“Start on his legs!” Jessica said to Wildstar.  Jessica ripped Peter's shirt the rest of the way, exposing his neck and chest.  She took the oxygen mask from Peter’s hand and positioned the mask back over his mouth.  “Shut up and breathe!” 

“Let me know if this hurts, Peter!”  Jessica put her hands over Peter’s abdomen and applied pressure.  Peter jerked slightly when she came too close to the shrapnel wound.  “Okay, Peter, that’s good!” 

“Blood pressure is steady!  Heart rate is at one-twenty and rising!”  Joe listened intently to Peter’s chest through his stethoscope and shook his head.  “I can’t hear breath sounds on the left.  The left side isn’t rising with the right!  I think it’s a tension pneumothorax!”   

Jessica looked up at Joe from Peter’s chest and gave him a quick nod.  “Must be!  He has a distended jugular and I count two entry wounds here!”

“We need to relieve the pressure!”  Joe said. 

“Jessica?”  Wildstar drew her attention to Peter’s left leg.  He cut away the flight suit and revealed a surprising amount of blood.

“Okay!  Do you see any puncture wounds?  Look carefully.”  Wildstar shook his head.  “That blood is drying, I think most of it is from the shrapnel wound.  That bleeding has stopped for now.  There’s alcohol and gauze over there.  Clean the blood from the area and try to watch for swelling or discoloration.  Got it?”  Wildstar nodded his response and reached for the supplies.  “Peter, I need to look at your back for exit wounds!”  She positioned her hands underneath him.  “I need to roll you on your right side for just a second!”

It was a coordinated effort between the three of them:  Joe at Peter’s head, Jessica at his chest, and Wildstar at his legs.  “Alright, roll on three.”  Jessica started the count and they lifted Peter on three.

Peter’s muscles tightened and his body stiffened with the pain.  He gritted his teeth under the oxygen mask.

The shredded flight suit fell away from his back, revealing undamaged skin.  Jessica sighed with some relief.  The shrapnel had not passed completely through his chest.  Although it was still trapped inside him, at least Jessica could focus on the holes on the front of his chest.

“Alright,” she said and they carefully laid him flat again.  Jessica rummaged in the supply chest and her hands emerged with what appeared to be flexible plastic disks sealed neatly in plastic packaging.  “Do you have triage experience?”  She glanced at Wildstar.

Wildstar nodded.  “Yes.”

“Any experience with sucking chest wounds?”  She asked as she pressed one of the large plastic disks over one of the shrapnel wounds in Peter’s chest.  It clung readily to the cleaned skin. 

“No,” he replied.

“That’s alright!  I just need a little help from you.” She took the second plastic disk and placed it over the other hole in her brother’s chest.  “Peter, there’s a pocket of air building up in your chest.  It’s crushing your lung.  That’s why you can’t breathe!”  She took Wildstar’s hands and placed them firmly on the plastic disks.  “I need you to watch these chest seals.”  She said to Wildstar.  “Not too much pressure, but make sure they stay sealed, okay?”

Wildstar nodded nervously, then he caught Peter’s good eye on him and tried to smile reassuringly.  “I got your back.”

“Thought you had my front,” Peter’s voice was just a whisper as he tried to smile back at him.

The medic handed her an object wrapped in plastic packaging and she began to rip it open.  “Peter, you know I love you.”

Peter looked at her suspiciously.  “This is going to hurt, isn’t it?”  

“After that piece of shrapnel you took in the gut?  It’s just a tickle, Sweetheart.”  She finished unwrapping the 14-gauge needle out of Peter’s eyesite, but Wildstar’s eyes widened slightly when he saw the size of it.  “I don’t have time to anesthetize the area, Peter.  You’re going to feel a good-sized pinch, okay?  I need you to try and be very still.” 

Peter suddenly released a groan.  “I haven’t started yet, Honey,” Jessica said to him.

“No, pressure… Hurts…” He moved his hand toward Wildstar’s hands on his chest.

“Hey, easy does it!”  Jessica touched Wildstar’s arm.  Wildstar suddenly broke his stare from the needle and looked at Jessica.

“Oh, I’m sorry!”  He said to her.  “I’m sorry!”  He repeated to Peter.  He suddenly realized he was preoccupied with the syringe in Jessica’s hand.  He was pressing too hard against Peter’s chest to secure the chest seals.

“It’s okay!  It’s okay!”  Jessica said quickly in a reassuring tone.  She briefly touched his arm.  “You’re doing fine.”

The medic moved to Peter’s right side and put his weight on Peter’s right hand.  Wildstar maintained his vigilance over the wounds, but moved slightly so the medic could get a good hold. 

“Not so tight,” Jessica told the medic, “he’s my brother and he’s never hit me before.  He’s not going to start now.”

“Are you sure?”  Joe glanced at the syringe then looked at her. 

“It’s alright.”  She persisted with a nod. 

Joe gently eased his grip, but kept a vigilant hold on Peter’s limbs.  “Do you want me to do this?”  He asked Jessica, but Peter replied to him.

“No,” Peter shook his head,  “she can do it.  I trust her.”

Jessica smiled at Peter.  “Check out the scenery in the window for me, Peter.  What’s his blood pressure?”

Joe checked the readings on the scanner.  “Hypotensive, eighty over forty!  His pulse is one-fifty and rising!”

Peter complied with his sister’s request and turned his head away from her.  Wildstar watched as Jessica  closed her eyes and carefully probed the left side of her brother’s chest.  Her fingers painstakingly followed the protrusion of his clavicle then stepped down the faint lines of his rib cage. 

Without opening her eyes, she carefully brought the needle to his chest and positioned it over the space between the first and second rib.  Then with a surprising tenderness that Wildstar would have never associated with such an act, she pressed the needle into her brother’s chest.

They could all feel Peter’s muscles tighten.  He squeezed his good eye closed and tears flowed.  His clenched fists trembled under the strain, but he remained obediently still.

She quickly pulled the plunger from the syringe and bloody fluid bubbled into it.  She carefully eased the syringe from his chest and a catheter remained.  Wildstar could hear the soft hiss of air and fluid bubble through the catheter.

Peter’s muscles suddenly released.  They felt his body as it went limp in their hands.  Silently, he slipped into unconsciousness.

 

 

“What happened?”  Wildstar shouted.  “He... he was talking to me!”

“Peter?”  Joe touched Peter’s face, trying to revive him.  “Peter, can you here me?”  He pulled back Peter’s eyelid to check his pupils.  The soft, rhythmic beep of the EKG registered sporadically.  “Doc?” 

Jessica followed Joe’s eyes to the EKG.  “I see it!  Multiple PVC’s!”

“He’s non-responsive, Doc!”  Joe leaned close to Peter's face.  “He’s not breathing!” 

“He’s not breathing?”  Wildstar shouted.  “What does that mean?”

Jessica looked at Wildstar, obviously perplexed by the question.  “It means he’s not breathing!”  She said calmly.  “Bag him!”  Jessica said to Joe, but Joe already grabbed the ventilator bag from the supply chest.  He removed the oxygen mask from Peter’s face and positioned the mask of the ventilator bag in its place. 

“What can I do?”  Wildstar asked, clearly frustrated.

Jessica pointed to the chair behind him.  “Sit!”  Wildstar obediently flopped back into the chair.  She pointed at him.  “Stay!” 

Jessica reached for a syringe gun and loaded it with a fluid-filled capsule.  She pressed the gun firmly to Peter’s neck, over the bloated jugular, and pulled the trigger.  There was a brief hiss as the epinephrine was administered, then she tossed the gun aside.   

“V-fib!”  Joe shouted, responding to the reading on the EKG. 

Jessica turned to the wall behind her and snatched the resuscitation electrodes for the defibrillator.  She placed an electrode on the upper right side of his chest.  She carefully positioned the second on his left, above the shrapnel wound, but below Peter’s heart. 

“Ready?”  She looked at Joe and he nodded.  He pulled the ventilator bag away.

The female voice of the computerized defibrillator anounced its intention and a three point count-down.  After one, Peter’s body jerked and arched as his muscles contracted with the electrical impulse.  His body released.  There was an intermitant beep from the scanner.  Another sharp blip sounded through the hollow drone of the alarms. 

Joe brought up the ventilator bag to Peter’s face.  Jessica began chest compressions until the defibrillator recycled.

Another anounced intention from the defibrillator broke the coordinated rythm between Jessica and Joe.  A three point count-down followed.  Jessica and the medic pulled away from Peter’s body.  Peter jerked again, every muscle locked and strained with the violent assalt on his system. 

A tense moment passed, then the scanner alarms ceased, one by one.  They waited for changes in Peter’s vitals. 

Peter moved.  He suddenly gasped, drawing in a deep breath as if he broke the angry surface of the sea.  He brought up his hand and roughly slapped the ventilator bag from his face and out of Joe's hands. 

Jessica grabbed his left arm and put a hand under his back.  She began to push him up on his side.  “Turn him!  Quick!”

Wildstar moved quickly and steadied Peter’s body on the opposite side from Jessica.  “Move back!”  Jessica said to Wildstar.

“What?”

“Back!”  Jessica shouted and she pushed Wildstar back in time to avoid Peter’s undigested breakfast as it hit the floor. 

“Normal sinus rhythm,”  Joe's eyes were still on the EKG monitor. 

“Normal breath sounds too!”  Jessica smiled at Joe after watching her brother breathe.

Peter was still on his side.  Joe pressed the stethescope against Peter’s back and he nodded and returned Jessica's smile.  “I’ll administer a little Promethazine through the IV.  It’ll help with the nausea.”

Jessica sat on the gurny and pressed her body against Peter’s back, supporting him so he could remain on his side.  She threaded her arm under his so she could reach the catheter in his chest.  She gently closed the valve.  With maticulous detail, she checked the seals over his wounds.  She took Peter’s hand in hers.  “Are you going to listen to me the next time I tell you we need a stretcher?”  Jessica whispered to Peter.

“No.”  Peter whispered and Jessica laughed softly.  “I’m going to feel this in the morning, aren’t I?”

Peter shivered violently.  Jessica looked up at Wildstar.  “There are blankets in the incubator over there.  Would you get two of them, please.”  Wildstar nodded and quickly returned, handing one of the heated blankets to Jessica and spreading the other over Peter’s legs.  “Thank you,” she said and drapped it over Peter’s shoulder, carefully avoiding the shrapnal wound in his side.

 

 

Wildstar sat in a chair close to Peter’s head.  He gently placed his hand over Peter’s short cropped hair.  “You're a mess!”

Peter was weary and weak, but he looked up at Wildstar and gave him a brief smile.  “Sorry… about your boots.”

Wildstar smiled and glanced down at his boots.  “Don’t worry.  They’re in much better shape than your fighter.”

The interior of the shuttle went dark as the medevac escaped the light of the setting sun and entered the underground landing zone.  Wildstar leaned back into his chair, releasing a long, relieved sigh.  His eyes adjusted to the dim interior illumination of the shuttle, and his eyes fell on Jessica.

The light from the launch tube scattered through the interior of the shuttle as they moved further underground.  Even in the intermittent flashes of light, Wildstar could see how much she loved him.  It was etched in her eyes, written in the way she looked at him in that very moment.  Without hesitation, without doubt, without question, she loved him.     

She softly whispered words to him.  It was something that Wildstar could not hear at first.  Then, he realized, she was softly singing. 

Her voice was timid and small.  The words trembled as they escaped her.  It made the melody tremendously haunting in the hollow confines of the shuttle.  He could only catch bits of the words, but the melody was eerily familiar and strangely comforting. 

_“…All the birds in the forest they bitterly weep…”  
_

Peter was breathing easier now.  Joe gently placed the oxygen mask over Peter's face. 

_“…Saying, ‘Where will we shelter or where will we sleep?’  
For the Oak and the Ash, they are all cutten down…”_

“Mom sang that, didn't she?”  Peter whispered to her.  His voice was muffled.  “You sound like her.”

Jessica was silent as the melody caught in her throat.  Wildstar felt his throat tighten.  She bowed her head and a tear rolled down her cheek.  The emotionless façade which Jessica had so carefully crafted around her, shattered in that moment.  Wildstar watched the pieces fall.   

There was something intrinsically valuable in what was between them, something irreplaceable and wholly immeasurable.  Seeing it was enough to help Wildstar understand  there was no better place for his good friend than in the capable and vigilant hands of this young woman. 

“Tell me,” Peter said softly.  He drew in a deep breath.  “How long have you wanted to stab your big brother in the chest?”

She smiled at him, “Truthfully?”  Her voice cracked as she blinked back tears.  “Ever since you put my marshmallow peeps in the microwave.”

Peter smiled weakly, “You remember that?”

She leaned towards his ear and whispered, “I still have nightmares.”

He squeezed her hand.  “You’ll make sure they put everything back where they found it.” 

“Of course.  I did mention that you might be much happier as a woman.”

Peter smiled.  He wanted to laugh, but a sharp pain shot through him.  He cringed and groaned.

“I’m sorry!  I’m sorry, Peter!  I won't make you laugh anymore!”

Peter blinked, trying to clear his head.  Wildstar could see he was swimming through waves of exhaustion.  Jessica carefully stood up from the gurney and helped Peter lay back.  Somewhere in the random memories surfacing in his mind, Peter recalled a familiar saying between them, “I missed your smile,” he said to her.

Jessica laughed out loud.  Her eyes glistened as tears escaped, but she responded to him quickly with great sincerity, “I missed your laugh.”  She leaned over Peter, her face close to his.  Strands of her hair escaped the braid and brushed against his face.  She kissed his forehead.  “I’ll be here when you wake up, Peter.”  She moved the oxygen mask over his mouth. 

The shuttle landed and she heard the ramp descending behind her.  Joe touched her shoulder.  “Doc?” 

“Wait,” she refused to divert her attention from her brother.  Peter tried to say something else, but it was lost in the muffled hiss of the oxygen.  His hand relaxed within hers. 

Wildstar knew she wanted to be the last person he saw, the last person he heard, and the last person he felt before he faded into unconsciousness.  She waited for his eyes to close and she didn't move until she was certain he would not utter another word. 

Not even the footfall of the ground support staff as they ran up the ramp of the shuttle distracted her.  Joe briefed them on Peter’s condition.  By now, Jason had downloaded her brother’s vitals from the on-board scanner.

“Alright,” she said to Joe.  She unhooked the saline bag and placed it gently on the gurney, then she stepped back. 

They unlocked the gurney from its fittings, extended the wheel bearings.  They carefully moved it toward the ramp.  Jessica’s hand lingered with Peter’s for a moment longer, until he was moved away.  Her fingers brushed his arm, his shoulder, then and the short-cropped hair on his head.  Wildstar knew those last engaging moments were for her. 

Joe stayed behind with Jessica, giving her a moment before he spoke.  “Doc Randall said you could observe.  Are you coming?”

Jessica shook her head.  She didn’t meet his eyes.  She continued to look after her brother.  “Not this time…”

The young medic nodded to her then followed the others.  They rushed the gurney down the dimly lit stone corridor.  She watched her brother disappear into the shadows.  The wheels of the gurney echoed against the walls of the underground chamber.  It faded into the voices of the lingering crowd.  Some watched with questioning trepidation as the medical staff passed.

 

* * *

 

To Be Continued

 

Chapter 4 – The Healer

Peter Conroy's young sister is a healer, but in the shadow of tragedy, where can the healer find solace?  Can Jessica move beyond her inner turmoil and find trust and hope in a new friendship?


	4. The Healer

Wildstar could see she was overwhelmed by a sudden flood of emotion. The tension released in her body, and her shoulders slumped. She leaned against the hydraulic arm of the shuttle's ramp behind her, pressing her trembling hands against her face. She was silent as she tried to hide her tears. 

“Jessica.” Wildstar struggled for words. 

Jessica caught her breath and glanced toward his voice. He knew she had momentarily forgotten he was there. She wiped her cheeks with her hands then straightened her body. She tried to regain her professional composure, defiantly lifting her chin. With the steady, confident gait of a Conroy, she brushed passed him and walked down the center aisle of the shuttle. Never meeting his eyes. 

“Please go,” she said abruptly.

Wildstar didn’t move, he watched her as she knelt to retrieve debris from the floor. “I don’t think you should be alone.”

“I have some cleaning to do. I don't need an audience,” she tried her best to sound strong, but the trembling of her voice betrayed her. 

“Then let me help you,” Wildstar persisted.

“Go! Please...” There was almost a pleading tone in her words, but she didn’t turn to look at him.

Before he could object, she snatched the plastic trash receptacle from its frame. She ripped off the cover and pressed her face to the opening. Her body convulsed and arched. The small chamber of the shuttle echoed with guttural retching sounds. 

Wildstar knelt on the floor with her, hesitantly touching her back. He heard footsteps on the shuttle’s ramp behind them. 

“Doc?” Jason appeared at the ramp of the shuttle. “Hey, Doc! Are you alright?” She answered him with louder guttural retching sounds. 

“I got it,” Wildstar said to him. Wildstar turned to Jessica and brushed the loose strands of hair away from her face. Jason's hesitant footsteps receded down the ramp as he returned to his work in the hanger. 

Jessica straightened, giving the impression it was over. Suddenly, her face was back in the receptacle again. A few moments later, she straightened once more, and tried to push Wildstar's hand away. “I don't need your help!”

“Oh, I think you do,” Wildstar's voice was gentle, but insistent. “Sit back.” He gently guided her to sit in one of the chairs, facing him. 

She was too embarrassed to look at him. “I told you, I don’t need an audience,” she whispered.

“I’m no doctor,” he said, retrieving a plastic cool pack from the supply chest, “but I have taken care of a few drinking buddies in my time.” He broke the capsule inside the bag and shook it to mix the chemicals. When it turned cold in his hand, he gently pressed it to her cheek.

“I haven’t been drinking, Captain……” Jessica tried to stand up, but Wildstar put his other hand on her shoulder. 

“I know. It’s a shame!” He moved the pack to the back of her neck. “You didn’t even get the decency of a good buzz for this lousy hangover.”

Wildstar felt her body finally relax; she closed her eyes and resigned herself to the attention. “Don’t you have some place to be? Someone must be waiting for you.” 

“Yeah, well, she understands my work isn’t finished until the entire crew is safe. I am sure her family is happy to have her all to themselves right now.”

“What about your family?” Jessica asked, as he moved the pack from her neck to her other cheek. 

“My brother isn't around anymore.”

“I’m sorry…” She said softly, opening her eyes again. She watched him as he stood up and sat down in the chair next to her.

“I’m not,” he replied with a reassuring smile. “That’s a story for another time.”

Jessica tilted her head with some confusion. “Then your parents…” 

“A long time ago, but it still seems like yesterday.”

“It was quick then,” Jessica’s voice was almost a whisper and Wildstar nodded, averting his eyes from hers. “It may not seem so right now, but someday, you’ll see that as a piece of mercy.” Wildstar met her eyes again. She surprised him with her statement. She continued as tears began to flow. “I buried my father five months ago.” She paused and wiped her cheek with her hand, but another tear escaped. “He lingered for months.” She swallowed hard, it took a few moments for her to find her next words. “No one actually dies of radiation sickness. Did you know that? They die from the secondary infections. They suffer.”

“You’ve suffered too,” Wildstar whispered back to her. 

“Not like that,” she replied in a small voice. “We haven’t been able to manufacture basic medications since before you left for your mission! Analgesics, anesthetics, antibiotics, our inventory is almost gone! It’s like we’re back in the Dark Ages again!”

Wildstar bit his lip before he spoke. He knew she feared for her brother. “Peter is strong. He walked away from that accident… ”

“Surviving the accident is one thing!” She interrupted him with a raised voice. “Surviving the recovery is another!” She shook her head, then looked down at the floor. “You don’t know what it’s been like here! The things I’ve had to do. The decisions I’ve made.” She clenched her fists. “I’m not the same person that Peter left behind.” She looked down at her hands, unable to meet Wildstar's eyes. “I’m much worse!”

“None of us are the same, Jessica. Not even Peter. We've all had to do things that we would rather forget.”

It was a curiosity. Both of her brothers wore the uniform, yet she didn’t. He understood now, her lack of military affiliation. He heard about young people like her. She was an independent. A rogue with a valuable skill for saving lives. She could go where she wanted and treat whom she wanted without orders or interference. This was the self-inflicted burden of the Civilian Medical Corps.

The military rationed assistance and medical care to conserve resources, especially when an area was considered a loss. Young medics like Jessica attempted to fill in the gaps, evacuating and caring for those that had strength and hope. Sometimes, they assisted others with a peaceful, painless death. 

The leather backpack she carried with her was an old medic’s bag. The flap bore the faded symbol of a red cross on a white circle. She most likely kept it properly supplied and in her possession wherever she went. She gained passage on military transports by supplementing the medevac crews, which were constantly short-handed. 

Pieces fell into place for him. The rapid deterioration of her physical condition made sense. Jessica's work was in the trenches, treating the sick and dying while exposing herself to high concentrations of radiation. A chill went through Wildstar. The brutal affects of radiation exposure compounded over time. Ironically, Wildstar and his crew-mates, including Conroy, were in better health because of their time away from Earth. 

“What’s your level of exposure, Jessica?” He asked her softly, carefully. “You’ve been treating the sick in highly radioactive areas.” He tilted his head towards hers, urging her to meet his eyes. “How often?” 

Jessica suddenly looked at him, her eyes laced with a guarded warning. He was treading where he wasn't welcome. “I go when and where I’m needed!”

Wildstar didn’t press her. He knew when she looked at him, it was hard for her to see beyond the uniform. The mistrust between the military and the Civilian Medical Corps was common knowledge. The relationship was tightly intertwined, but tenuous and conflicted. 

The focus of the military was defense. They wanted to keep their troops healthy enough to fight, sometimes at the expense of the civilian population. Because manufacturing and production had ceased, the efforts of the military often required the acquisition of medical supplies from civilian sources. Resources usually came from cities slated for evacuation. However, sometimes the Civilian Medical Corps managed to outmaneuver the military. They stashed their own medical supplies with the intent of managing a reserve outside of military or government control. 

Viral rumors about the Corps had political significance. Some believed the military propagated nasty rumors to heighten the mistrust within the military. They wanted to discourage their personnel from cooperating or sympathizing with the Corps. It was said the Corps funded their operations with the sale and trade of black market medical supplies. 

They often traded with the military for transportation. They were considered rogues and common thieves by military leaders, yet they often supplemented military personnel in large-scale rescue operations. It was even thought some of the military leaders owed their lives to the hands of civilian surgeons. 

Jessica finally pushed Wildstar's hand from her face. She rose and moved to the other side of the shuttle, sitting in a chair above the supply chest. She retrieved some tubes wrapped in plastic from the chest.

“I didn’t mean to pry, Jessica.” He rose to sit in the chair across from hers. “What are you doing?”

“Drawing blood,” she replied and she threw the rubber tourniquet around her upper arm.

“Uh, huh… I don’t think you’re in shape for that right now.” He pulled the tourniquet away before she could get it tied. 

“Hey,” she snatched at it and tried to pull it back. 

Wildstar tugged it until it stretched between them. Then he let it go. It snapped back against Jessica’s fingers. 

“Ouch!” She dropped it and he snatched it off the floor. He held it up between two fingers and smiled at her with victorious sarcasm.

She shot him her best angry look, “Didn’t I ask you to go?”

“You did,” he said and he started to pull off his shirt, “Look, you can skewer me first while you rest, then you can do yourself… okay?” He pulled a hand held scanner out of the supply trunk and swept it over his arm where his ID chip was implanted. The scanner beeped and displayed his ID number and blood type. He held it up to her and she read the same blood type as her brother.

After a pause, she met his eyes, “Alright,” she said flatly, suppressing emotion from the response, but he sensed an underlying gratitude from her for his company. She took the tourniquet from him and began to prepare the materials to draw blood. “Which arm?” She asked and Wildstar lifted his left arm to her.   
“Lean back in the seat and try to relax,” she said and she pulled the tourniquet tight around his arm. “Squeeze.”

He obeyed her instructions without comment and watched the veins swell to the surface of his skin. She pulled the cap from the needle and aligned it with a vein in his arm. “You know,” she said and she paused, “I should probably tell you that I’m not really a doctor.”

Wildstar smiled, already aware her youth denied her the formal title, but circumstances gave her the experience. “That’s alright,” he replied with a smile, “I’m not really a Captain.” He jumped, surprised at the pinch as the needle sank into his skin.

He noticed her hands as she taped gauze over the entry point of the needle. Without her gloves, they were thin, weathered, and drastically pale. His eyes moved to her face as she watched the blood move down the plastic tubing. Her delicate features bore the signs of exhaustion and frailty, but there was an underlying strength in her he admired.

Wildstar could feel the heat emanating from the blood as the thick liquid oozed down the tube laying over his arm. He found it surprisingly unnerving. 

Jessica picked up the cool pack and held it against the back of his neck with the same delicate care he had given her. “Are you alright?” Her stoic veil of professionalism suddenly revealed a genuine empathy in her words. Her blue eyes studied him with concern. 

“C’mon,” he said, jerking his head to the seat next to him. “You can hold me up. I hate needles.”

She smiled at him. “Tough guy, huh?” She wiped her cheeks as she moved to the seat next to him.

“Hey, be grateful,” he said. “I’m showing my sensitive side!”

“Peter is terrified of needles,” she sank into the chair, propping her feet on the chair across from her.

“Really?” Wildstar looked at her with genuine interest.

She met his eyes, but she couldn't hide the suspicious smirk that crossed her lips. “No, I just thought it might make you feel better.”

Wildstar smiled and shook his head. He was comforted by Jessica's sense of humor. It was so much like Peter's. 

A comfortable silence fell between them, embraced by a lightened moment of familiarity. It was a welcome reprieve from the true weight of the situation. 

The farewell celebration before the Argo departed for its mission came to Wildstar's mind. Various entertainers performed for the crew and their families. There were plenty of bright lights and beautiful music. There was plenty of flash and plenty of distractions for a spectacular send-off, except for her. She was the closing performance. Wildstar recalled it in detail because it was quite beautiful in its simplicity. 

“The song you sang to Peter…” he said thoughtfully as memories flooded his mind. “That's where I heard it. You sang it for us before we left.”

The lights dimmed and the entire room went dark. A single beam of light suddenly illuminated a young girl in a long black dress. She seemed so small on the stage by herself, but her voice was haunting and ethereal. It carried well beyond her diminutive stature. A room full of hundreds of people fell silent and listened. 

She could have stopped time. He remembered, with great fondness, as she hit and held a high note with such passionate intensity and vivid clarity; tears welled in the eyes of the gruffest old soldiers in the room. 

Wildstar felt Jessica shift uncomfortably. “Oh, my,” the embarrassment was quite evident in her voice, “that crooning I did at the farewell celebration? That’s what Peter called it, anyway.”

“He said you had the voice of an angel.” Wildstar recalled the words from conversations between he and Peter. Peter spoke of his sister with genuine a love and pride, something he obviously did not freely express to his younger sibling. 

Jessica paused and looked at Wildstar. She seemed surprised. “He said that?”

“More than once,” Wildstar added and he smiled at her.

Wildstar knew the complexities of siblings very well himself. It was a delicate and tedious balance of admiration and envy, love and disappointment, trust and caution. Wildstar never expressed his love for his brother before he was gone. However, after finding him again, conflicts, disagreements, and self-conscious inhibitions were fated to the wind like dying leaves in the fall. He felt certain Peter would forgive this minor violation of confidence. 

Wildstar looked at her thoughtfully. “Can I ask? Why did you choose that song?”

She looked down at her hands clasped in her lap. “My mother sang us to sleep with that melody when we were little.” It seemed as if Jessica wanted to stop with that, but she glanced at Wildstar, momentarily meeting his eyes in the silence. “I chose it because it gave us comfort when we were children. I wanted Peter to remember it.” 

She had no idea of the impression she had made, the lasting affect she had on those that heard her. The room was so large, not everyone could see her, but her sweet voice carried to every ear. He wished he had words to express it to her, but he wasn’t poetic in that way. 

“Do you still sing?” Wildstar asked.

Jessica laughed softly as if the question seemed ridiculous. “The world doesn’t have any use for entertainers right now.”

“I’ll bet your mother would disagree.”

Jessica’s tense composure eased. She leaned her head against his shoulder and sank into the solid support of his body with a long, steady exhale. He knew she was tired. For the moment, he had strength enough for the both of them. 

“You won't tell anybody I tossed my cookies, will you?” Jessica asked him.

“Are you going to tell anyone I'm afraid of needles?”

“My lips are sealed,” she whispered, then she said softly, “Tell me about my brother.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Anything I can use against him later.”

Wildstar laughed softly. He felt the weight of her head on his shoulder along with the weight of her fragile trust. “What can I tell you about Bird Dog?”

 

To Be Continued

Chapter 5 – Grace  
Jessica Conroy meets the extended family her brother has found in the Star Force. They offer her gracious solace, but will her lack of trust and her independent spirit allow her to find comfort among them?


	5. Grace

Jessica and Wildstar walked down a narrow hallway that lead from the hanger to the underground’s emergency medical facility. The hollow echo of their footsteps changed as the damp walls of stone transitioned to the familiar, fabricated material of the infirmary. 

Jessica stopped at the nurses’ station. She carefully placed her backpack on the counter and waited for the attendant to acknowledge her. “Is there any word about my brother?”

“No, Jessica. It’s much too soon,” the attendant replied.

Jessica pulled two pints of blood from her pack and placed them on the counter. “Here, Linda. A donation for Peter.” 

Linda smiled at her as she took the bags. “I think we are doing just fine in that area, Jessica, but more is always welcome.” 

Jessica’s attention was suddenly drawn by the noise of laughter down the hall. “What’s that?” Jessica asked Linda, but she was drawn down the hall toward the noise before Linda could give her an answer. Jessica heard Wildstar’s footsteps behind her.

“Those are the other donors!” Linda called after her. 

“Jessica? What’s the matter?” Wildstar asked as she made a sharp turn to a pair of doors.

“This is a hospital! Not a social gath...” She roughly pushed open the swinging doors and stepped through them. She halted and felt Wildstar nearly run into her from behind. 

“Derek!” A young woman pushed her way forward through a small crowd of people and embraced Wildstar.

“Nova!” Wildstar beamed with a surprised smile and hugged her back. 

“Wildstar?” A clean-cut, dark-haired man in uniform came forward. “We were starting to worry that the shuttle left you two behind.” He looked at Jessica with gentle brown eyes, beaming with an infectious smile. He respectfully took her hand in his. “Mark Venture, Jessica. I’m a friend of Peter’s. It’s so good to finally meet you!”

“I’m Nova, Jessica.” The young woman touched her arm from Wildstar’s embrace. 

Jessica glanced back at Nova and attempted a reply, but an older man in uniform approached and offered his hand. “Sandor,” he said to her. “You look just like your brother's photographs.”

She took his hand and nodded to him with a brief smile. Jessica looked back at Wildstar questioningly, but Wildstar shrugged and shook his head. 

Jessica opened her mouth to say something, but a young man came forward and offered his hand to her. He had sandy blond hair, which swept up from his forehead. He introduced himself with a friendly smile, “I’m Homer, Jessica, the communications officer. This is Dash, he’s our weapons officer.” He jerked his thumb to the tall, dark-haired stranger next to him. Dash adjusted his glasses and offered Jessica his hand. Several other crew members came forward and introduced themselves, until Nova finally intervened. 

“Okay, everyone, let’s give them some room,” Nova said to the group. Jessica was grateful for the break. Jessica felt Nova's arm around hers, then her gentle guidance towards the seating area of the large waiting room. Jessica was silently grateful for Nova’s graceful diversion. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” Nova asked softly. “Some of the crew brought trays from the banquet.” 

“I’m… I’m not hungry…” Jessica hesitated. Nova was suddenly aware of her tenseness. She paused beside Jessica. Her soft, brown eyes exuded compassion, but they searched Jessica's face for a response. “Why are you here?” Jessica pulled away from Nova's grasp. Her voice was loud enough to silence the conversations around them. “Your families!” She glanced at the others around them, feeling the weight and the heat of their stares. “This isn’t necessary! Cory and I…”

“The mission isn’t over until we know Conroy is alright,” Sandor interrupted her as he approached. 

“It wasn’t much of a party without Conroy anyway!” Homer grinned, referring to the banquet held in their honor. Dash acknowledged the inappropriateness of the comment with a light smack to the back of Homer’s head. 

Jessica brought her hand to her mouth to hide a stifled smile. She wanted to laugh, but her internal, emotional barometer scolded her with guilt. Thoughts of her brother overwhelmed her. They came in powerful waves, washing over her like bitter seawater. Her emotions were tangled and confusing. She was uncertain whether to be grateful for the support or angry at the interference. 

'Who are these people?' She thought, looking around her. 'How am I supposed to deal with them?' She felt the sting of fresh tears in her eyes. Soft words of gratitude, heated words of anger, or words of any kind, escaped her.

Jessica’s exhaustion tore at the fragile threads of her emotions. Her hand moved from her mouth to her forehead. She desperately wanted the exquisite release of emotion that came with a deluge of tears, but only in seclusion, not surrounded by strangers. How was she going to manage the facade? Her strength, both physical and emotional, failed her. If only she could find a moment's peace, a refuge of solitude. 

“Doctor Sane is assisting in your brother’s surgery, Jessica.” Jessica felt Nova touch her arm again.

She met Nova's eyes, surprised. She was well aware of Doctor Sane’s prowess as a trauma surgeon. Jessica acknowledged her with a brief nod. 

Jessica felt a strong hand on her shoulder. She turned to meet Sandor's eyes in silence. “We’re just here for support. That’s all.” They regarded each other for a moment. Jessica didn’t know him, but there was a calming confidence in his words. His sincerity and his gentle smile were strangely disarming. 

Jessica considered his words for a long moment. She placed her hand over his and diverted her eyes from him while gently removing his hand from her shoulder. Her legs felt heavy and weak. A tear escaped and slid down her cheek, but she quickly wiped it away and maintained her composure. 

“I appreciate what you've done,” she began, her voice low and steady, “but I want you to go. All of you.” Sandor moved to say something, but he hesitated when Jessica lifted her hands, making a quiet plea for his silence. “I can't do this right now. You should be with your family, and I should be with mine.” 

Jessica turned away from Nova and Sandor and started toward the entrance. She felt Wildstar's gaze on her as she passed him, but she didn't acknowledge him. She feared if she met his eyes, he would say something to change her mind. She stopped, only when confronted by a small group of men entering the room through the double-doors. They were dressed in the signature pilot's uniform for the Black Tigers. It was her brother's squadron. The young men circled Peter's crash site until they were dangerously low on fuel.

“Hardy! It's about time! We thought you guys would catch up with us eventually!” Mark Venture yelled to them from across the room.

Hardy was the first to move away from the entrance, walking into the room with the reserved, yet assured gait of a soldier returning from battle. Jessica was still and speechless. She felt the color drain slowly from her face. She stared, carefully taking in the details of him. He was just as she remembered. 

He shook hands with some of his crew mates and acknowledged others with a friendly nod. The other pilots filed into the room in behind him. 

If he ever possessed the brash arrogance of youth, he left it behind long before she knew him. He carried his scars instead. They were a painful reminder of his mortality, his undeniable vulnerability. Yet, they served him well. They balanced his bravado with the weight of hard lessons learned. He was a better pilot, a better teacher, and a better man because of them. 

Jessica attempted to regain meager shreds of her confidence. She straightened her body and stiffened her shoulders. In a subtle suggestion of defiance, she lifted her chin, silently refusing the feeling of intimidation, which threatened her in his presence. 

Hardy met Jessica’s eyes and as he approached her, he never looked away. She wanted to move, to walk past him, but she stood transfixed, trapped by the weight of his gaze. He stopped before her, inches from her, much too close to be strangers. 

Jessica didn't step back from him, but her body seemed to withdraw slightly as he drew closer. The defiance of her demeanor faded. An apprehensive uncertainty prevailed in the quiet strength of his presence. Her eyes broke from his as the heat of his body overwhelmed her and she could no longer endure the intensity in his eyes. 

“Hardy, this is Conroy’s sister,” Sandor offered, seemingly oblivious to the situation.

Her eyes followed the wisps of light-brown hair that fell against his face to the defined contour of his jaw line. She studied his lips, the lines of his neck, the oscillation of his skin where his pulse reflected his heartbeat, then the obscure creases on the collar of his uniform. 

She was lost in the exquisite detail of him, the movement of his chest as he breathed, the faint sound of his breath as his chest rose and fell. She lifted a hesitant hand. She wanted to touch him, perhaps embrace him, but she was afraid. ‘Is he real?’ she thought. Her fingers settled against her lips instead. 

Hardy took her trembling hand in his steady, confident grasp. He pressed it firmly to his chest, just over his heart. 

“Um…” Sandor paused, suddenly aware there was something more between the pair, “So… you guys know each other?”

Jessica closed her eyes. She felt the strength of his grasp, the heat of his hand as it surrounded hers. Tears streamed down her face. Her breath trembled as she drew it in. The steady rhythm of his heart was strong against her palm. She felt his chest gently rise and fall beneath her hand with each breath he took. He had to be real. 

Hardy gently touched Jessica’s face with his other hand and brushed strands of her hair away from her eyes. Her eyes finally met his. “I am truly sorry about your brother,” Hardy said softly to her. His voice had the feel of cool velvet against the skin. 

Jessica swallowed hard, but this time her eyes never left his. The gentle sincerity in his voice brought forth more tears. “I... I thought... I would never see you again.”

Hardy was raised with a unique Southern gentility that seemed to be his endearing hallmark among his peers. It was the gentleman in him that whispered his next words as he leaned in close to her. “I am going to kiss you now,” he said softly, and she could feel his breath against her lips, “so you tell me if you want me to stop.” By the end of the sentence, he had closed his eyes and gently pressed his lips to hers. 

She never had the opportunity to object. She wouldn't have had the strength. In that fleeting moment, in the hushed silence of the room, it was only the two of them.

Jessica’s fragile strength failed her. She felt her legs give way and, without effort, she slipped into the sheltering reprieve of darkness.


	6. Fire

The basic trainers were bound to Earth's atmosphere. They didn’t have the performance capability of the Astro Fighters Hardy wanted to fly someday. They were atmospheric trainers. Their purpose was to instill the fine points of aerodynamics. It helped the pilot understand how an aircraft reacted as it passed through molecules of air, denying the ever-present desire of gravity. 

Hardy enjoyed the night flights the most during his basic training on Earth. It was as close as he could get to space when he was a young cadet. A cascade of stars welcomed him in the night. There were no cities or lights on the desolated landscape to obscure them. The wind was usually calm, and the dust settled to the Earth. The veil of night cooled the shattered ground and calmed the rising thermals. Even turbulence rested in the night. 

With only the timid light of the stars to light the surface, it was easy to forget what had become of Earth. The desolate landscape was tragic, but it became his playground. There were few, if any, regulations or restrictions on airspace. No confinements, no limits. If his instructor saw fit, they could race along the nap of the Earth or they could push his trainer to the edge of the atmosphere. 

Hardy was an advanced student, one of the top students in his class. His instructor often rewarded him at the end of each training session with a few moments of peace. He looked forward to those brief occasions when the constant chatter of corrections and opinions fell silent. 

“So when is the big day, ma’am?” Hardy’s voice broke the steady faint static of the radio.

“March twenty-fifth,” Frodo replied. Hardy sensed she was smiling in the seat behind him.

“You’re not going to break that boy’s heart and leave ‘em standing at the alter, are you?”

“Do you mean am I going to let him off the hook? Not a chance! Watch your approach. You’re picking up the nav.”

The TACAN for the underground landing strip registered on his instruments. He was twenty kilometers out. It was time to set up for the approach. 

He missed the convenience of the GPS systems, but most of the satellites in the supportive network for GPS navigation were destroyed. The effort to revert back to the ground-to-air navigation of the fixed-base system was successful. It was older navigation technology, but it was reliable and there was no dependency on the GPS satellite network.

Hardy eased back on the throttle and gently raised the nose of the aircraft, slowing his airspeed. He engaged the flaps and pushed the nose forward. The aircraft settled into its approach speed. He set the appropriate frequency into the radio and tapped his mike twice. In the distance, the faint light of the landing ball appeared. Behind it was a dim trail of lights, receding into a cavernous darkness in the earth. 

“I’ve got the ball,” Hardy said to his instructor. 

“You know the drill,” Frodo snapped, “airspeed and runway! Two degrees to your left! Get your nose down! I taught you better than this!”

Hardy smiled to himself as he carried out her demands. By now, he was used to the constant barking of an instructor in his ears. It was white-noise to him. They entered the glide path with the appropriate descent speed. He held it in the narrow window, coordinating with minute adjustments on the stick and with the slow, steady reduction of the throttle. 

The mountains rose around them, and the horizon disappeared as they followed the glide path to the jagged earth. They were enveloped by blackness. The mouth of the underground runway swept passed them. Only the haunting glow of the instruments lit their surroundings. The faint trail of the runway lights stretched out before them, providing minimal guidance. 

Hardy released his anxious grip on the stick, and he pulled it back with only the delicate touch of his index finger. The technique stayed his excitement and kept him from pulling the nose up too hard. There was very little room for mistakes inside those walls. The massive aircraft gently sank to the tarmac. There was a brief screech of tires, then the nose wheel settled to the ground. The cockpit rumbled with the solid sound of the concrete beneath the tires. 

“Like a butterfly with sore feet!” Frodo smacked the top of Hardy’s helmet as he applied the brakes. “Good job!”

 

________________________________________

It was because of her petite stature of five feet, four inches, her colleagues lovingly dubbed her ‘Frodo’. The name was cemented forever in the historical annals of the Academy when she rushed to an emergency briefing with damp hair. She did not have time to tuck away her natural curls as usual. 

“What is this? Fellowship of the Ringlets?” A superior commented in front of her fellow pilots. After a chorus of laughter and an informal christening with a sprinkle of stale coffee, Frodo the flight instructor was named. However, because she was superior in skill to Hardy, and because she outranked him, he always referred to her with a respectful “ma’am”. Just to be safe.

‘It's a shame that flying skills are not closely linked with drawing skills,’ Hardy thought. He snickered at her attempt to sketch the trainer on the whiteboard. 

She eyed him over her shoulder. “Do you have something to share with me, Cadet?”

“No, ma’am,” he replied quickly, “Nice drawing, though… Is that a bird or a plane?”

She turned with her hands on her hips. She was trying hard to be serious, but Hardy could tell she was working to suppress a smile. “Alright,” she began, pointing to the obscure sketch in blue marker on the whiteboard, “This is a plane, not a bird! Let’s talk about….” Her voice suddenly trailed off into silence.

Hardy looked at her strangely, waiting for her to continue, until he realized she was reacting to the vibration of the room around them. He sat up straight in his chair and watched a half-empty coffee cup left on the table softly vibrate, shudder, then tip over. Hardy locked eyes with Frodo. He knew they were thinking the same thing. They sprung at the same time, Hardy violently pushing his chair out of his path. 

They rushed from the briefing room to the edge of the underground tarmac and stared in disbelief. Debris from the ceiling showered down on the aircraft neatly aligned at the edge of the runway. The collapse of the stone ceiling did not register until a chunk of it hit the floor between them and shattered. 

“The stairwells…” Frodo said softly.

“What?”

“Let’s GO! Get to the stairwells!” She screamed as she pointed across the tarmac to the stairwell doors. “They’re reinforced!” She grabbed Hardy’s arm and pulled him with her as she started to run across the long flat surface. 

Hardy was shaken to his knees in mid-stride by the unsteady ground. Frodo turned and offered her hand as he tried to get up. He reached out for it, but something smacked hard against his shoulder. He screamed. His own voice sounded hollow and thin against the thundering sounds from the trembling earth. 

He felt her hands on his arm. “Get up, Cadet!”

“Yes, ma’am!” He screamed as he tried to get to his feet.

“We can’t stop here!”

“No, ma’am!” He was finally on his feet and Frodo started to turn away from him.

A flash of light suddenly engulfed them. It was surreal. It must have lasted for only a few seconds, but everything seemed to unfold very slowly. Frodo squeezed her eyes shut at the sudden assault of light. Her black, chin-length hair blew into her face. 

Hardy tried to shield his eyes, but there wasn't enough time. He was lifted from his feet by a violent rush of heated air. A deafening roar followed. He was thrown against something flat and solid, it must have been the wall. The impact forced the air from his lungs. He heard the sickening crack of shattering bones.

He fell to the floor in a paralyzed heap, mercifully numb. He was embraced by the benevolent grace of blackness. For a few lingering moments, over the deafening roar of flames and the sporadic hiss of the fire extinguishing system, he could hear the calm, surreal, female voice of the computer as it urged their evacuation. Although he tried to fight it, his consciousness slowly receded into silence.

________________________________________

 

He awoke to the faint echo of a melody in a young girl’s voice. It drifted hauntingly around him, touching him briefly, then receding into the darkness. ‘Was he dead? No,’ he thought. ‘If I were dead, it wouldn’t hurt so much.’ He tried to take a breath, but he froze. Every inch of skin, muscle, and bone screamed with agony from the slight movement. He laid still, listening to the silvery voice and its eerie melody, focusing hard on his one fragile thread of comfort. 

“….you shine where you stand   
And the more I think on you the more I think long   
If I had you now as I had once before   
All the lords in Old England ……”

The singing paused and a cold silence was upon him. It lingered for a long moment and he felt the pounding of his heart in his ears. The tentative footsteps of a human being echoed around him and he knew for certain he was alive. Suddenly, a girl’s voice spoke out, “Hello? Is anyone there?” 

There was another long pause. Hardy tried to move again. He tried to speak, but his voice failed him. He began to cough uncontrollably; the contraction of his muscles forced agonizing spasms of pain through him. He groaned. The sound scattered against the walls in a faint repercussion.

“I hear you!” Came the small voice. It seemed distant now. It was fading quickly. “Say something! Where…” Before he could gather the strength to utter a word, he was pulled under again, into unconsciousness. He was swallowed into a dark, pitiful silence. It was exactly where he didn’t want to go. 

________________________________________

 

Something tapped against his face. It was cold. It was wet. He struggled to reach the surface of his consciousness. He thought he opened his eyes, but there was nothing but blackness. He reacted. His flailing hand connected hard with something. He heard the piercing scream of a woman.

“Don’t fight!” The voice shouted. “Don’t fight me!”

He felt something on his face. He wanted it off, so he pulled it away. There was something around his neck! He grabbed at it. It was stiff and hard and it kept him from moving. He wanted it off, but something restrained him. He reached out with his free arm and something caught him by the wrist. He started to pull away from it and pain shot through him like lightening. It must have jerked him to his senses because the woman's voice pierced the ringing in his ears.

“Stop it!” The voice grew louder. “Stop moving! Don’t! You’ll pull out the IV!”

The commands suddenly registered with him and he froze. His breathing was rapid and strained. Its raspy sound was all he could hear in the dark.

“Easy!” The voice was strong at first, its tone forceful. It was a contradiction to its gentle nature. “Take it easy!”

“What…” His voice was rough and weak. He couldn’t force the words through his swollen throat. “I can’t see! My eyes!” He could only manage a whisper. Each word burned in his throat. 

“I know! I know! It’s all right!” 

Terror struck him hard. Panic seeped in as he tried desperately to catch his breath. ‘Why can’t I see? Why can’t I breathe? God, help me!’ He thought and he struggled to get to his feet. The woman's grip on his wrist tightened and she forced his arm to the floor. He felt the weight of her body across his. 

“Listen to my voice!” The girl's voice was strained as she fought against him. “Listen to me! You need to slow your breathing! Stop fighting me!”

The girl’s steady words began to sink into him. He settled into stillness, his strength depleted. “Oh... oh, my God... it hurts...” 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” She released her tight grasp on him. The weight of her body rose from his. She must have been sitting on his other arm because he felt the restraint lifted as she moved. “Try to breath easy.” He heard the hiss of air as something familiar was placed over his mouth and nose. 

He took in a breath of air. His chest rose and he felt the agony of shattered bones within his torso. “It... hurts... to breath!” He desperately wanted the relief of a deep breath, but he could only manage short and shallow inhalations. 

“That should subside. I've given you something for the pain.” She took his hand in hers, and he felt the warmth of her body beneath his palm. He felt the vibration of her voice in his fingers. “Can you feel me breathing?” She took in an exaggerated breath, sucking it through her lips so he could hear her. “Try to breathe with me!”

Her heartbeat was strong and steady, but rapid from her tangle with him. Its rhythm was constant and comforting against his palm. Her chest rose and fell with each breath. He focused on the movement. The inhale and the exhale. He tried to match his breathing with hers. 

He steadied himself; his panic slowly subsided into a manageable anxiety. The tension in his body gently eased and the pain began to subside. Breathing became easier and less painful with each steady inhale. 

“That’s good. Better.” He felt her fingers run over the I.V. site on his hand. She slowly pulled his arm straight and turned his palm up. He felt the agonizing restriction, the painful tightness of damaged skin as she moved him. There was a rustling of plastic. “Little stick.” The prick of a needle at the bend of his arm surprised him and he jerked in response. She tightened her grip on his arm to keep him still. She released his arm and it rested in her lap as she kept working. “You have chemical burns. I’m trying to rinse your eyes.” The fluid tapped his face again and he jerked. “It’s just saline! Water! I need you to be still!” He tried to obey her, but he suddenly realized his body was violently shivering.

He vaguely felt her fingers touch the swollen skin of his face. There was no pain when they tried to pry open his eyelids, only pressure. It was numb. When a cold jet of water found his eyeball, he felt a sharp, penetrating sting. He wanted to slap the probing hands away. Instead, he clenched his fists and squeezed them hard against the pain. 

“You’re... medic?” Hardy whispered through clenched teeth. He was aware of her leaning over him. He heard the faint sound of her breathing.

“More or less.” Her voice seemed distant as she focused on her work.

“What…” He hesitated as another sharp pain shot through him, “What does that mean? More or less?”

“I know enough to be lethal. I would pipe down and let me concentrate if I were you.”

“My instruct...” Hardy tried to swallow, but his swollen throat hurt him. “There was a woman…”

“Yes, I know. I found her.”

A tense silence fell between them. When the young voice did not volunteer more information, Hardy tried to speak again, “Help… help her first.”

“I can’t.”

Hardy’s body stiffened. “…Sure?…”

“I checked her.”

“Sure?…” The distraction in her voice irritated him. He moved his hand and grabbed for her arm. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure!” The fluid stopped flowing onto his eyes when his fingers tightened around her wrist. She sounded equally irritated. “Do you know what the femoral artery is?”

Hardy was silent except for his shivering. He knew she was going to tell him.

“It’s the largest conduit for blood circulation in the lower extremities. You have one that goes down each leg. The one in her right leg is severed. Probably shrapnel from the explosion. Considering the amount of adrenaline pumping through you two, it didn’t take her long to bleed out.” She pulled her wrist free from him; the fluid started to flow over his eyes again. “I don't think she felt much. Like I said, I can’t help her.”

“Married…” he whispered. “She was getting married… next month.” Hardy felt the girl pause, but only momentarily.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly but there was little empathy in her words. “You’re the one I can help right now. If I don't get this out of your eyes, it will do more damage. Rest your airway. We’ve got to keep the swelling down. I don’t have the tools to intubate properly here.” He was relieved when he felt the fluid stop once more. “The dispatch log, was it accurate?” He heard the rustling sound of plastic or paper. She was rapidly sorting through something. “It was just you and the lieutenant. Would there be anyone else up here? Maintenance personnel? Anyone?” The rustling paused. She was waiting for his reply.

“I… I don’t know.”

“That’s okay. You’re stable now.” There was the sharp clank of metal against concrete. He sensed she was rifling around in a pack. “I need to make a sweep of the area to check for more survivors.” He felt her pull a blanket over him. He sensed it was one of the foil blankets employed by military medics. They reflected body heat with great efficiency. It crinkled slightly as she unfolded it and tucked it in around him. “Don't struggle against the restraints. Stay still. You're immobilized to protect your spine. Do you understand?”

He reached up and grasped her arm again. He was gentle this time. “I… hit you… Sorry…”

He felt her hand around his. She squeezed his hand reassuringly. “You’d be surprised how often that happens in my line of work. It was my fault. I didn’t duck in time.” 

She started to move away, but he didn’t release her. “Don’t…”

“Try to rest. I won’t be gone long. You’ll be able to hear me.” 

“You sing....” he rasped.

“It calms my nerves.”

“Mine... mine too.”

There was a hesitation between them. He imagined, and he hoped, his words brought a smile to her face. This helplessness, this dependence, was new and frightening to him. He desperately wanted her to stay, but he reluctantly let her go as she gently pulled away from him. Tentative footsteps marked the distance as it grew between them. He was left with only the comfort of an ethereal melody as her delicate voice echoed through the burned-out caverns of stone. 

“…All the birds in the forest they bitterly weep   
Saying, ‘Where will we shelter or where will we sleep?’   
For the Oak and the Ash, they are all cutten down   
And the walls of bonny Portmore are all down to the ground...” 

 

________________________________________

 

To Be Continued

Chapter 7 – Remembrance  
Severely injured by a catastrophic explosion in an underground hanger, Jefferson Hardy struggles to survive the agony of his wounds. He must trust in the skills of a young, but determined rescuer. Her own struggle is to find a way out for both of them, before it's too late...


	7. Remembrance

His body’s violent shaking subsided into an occasional shiver. The pain was a dull throbbing now. Hardy could move without the nagging, sharp stabs of agony, but it was an effort. His breathing was strained. Its ragged sound berated the silence. 

He wanted the young woman to come back and tell him what had happened. So he waited. Her melody faded into the recesses of the caverns some time ago. 

She gave him something before she left him, something for the pain. It made him tired, but he didn’t want to sleep. He had no sense of time in his private darkness. His head swarmed with blurry memories from his past, until a pleasant one settled with him. It was the memory of a woman's face. The girl on the intracity tram. Her delicate features, and her lovely smile, remained with him long after she left him. He often wondered what had become of her. 

She boarded at a stop near the center of the underground city. Hardy rose from his seat as she searched the crowded car for a chair. He offered his seat, as any gentleman would do for a lady. She repaid his kindness with her acceptance of the offer and followed it with a captivating smile, exclusively for him. He was spellbound for a moment as she settled into the chair and looked out the window. The tram jerked to life and he nearly toppled over, but he quickly grabbed the bar above him. He sheepishly glanced at the beauty, relieved her attention was diverted elsewhere. 

Hardy was a gentleman first, but he couldn't help but stare at her. The artificial sunlight of the underground city had a cool, bluish tint to it, but it illuminated her skin with an enduring glow. Each time she glanced his way, he managed to avert his eyes in time, but he was certain his flushed face betrayed him. The next glance was the last, because her vibrant blue eyes held him. They stared at each other. Like a deer in the proverbial headlights, he was frozen. At least, until she smiled at him again. 

The apprehension in Hardy told him to avert his eyes, to look the other way, but as long as she held his gaze, he couldn't. He made a nervous attempt to return her smile.

The tram began to slow and a computerized voice announced the next stop. She averted her eyes as she rose to her feet, breaking the fragile connection between them. She moved past him in the crowded car. He could have moved back, allowing her more room. Instead, he allowed her to brush past him. Her shoulder touched him, then her slender back was against him. Before she could move too far from him, the tram stopped abruptly. Her delicate frame leaned against him with the motion. Her blond hair brushed against his face. She smelled like roses. 

She glanced back at him again, not meeting his eyes this time. “I'm sorry.” Her voice was soft and pleasant. 

Hardy tried to force out something, but it wouldn't come. He stood there, still grasping the bar above him, his mouth open.

She made her way to the door and looked back at him once more. This time she met his eyes. Someone passed between them. In the next moment, she was gone. He searched the windows for her, but she was lost in the crowd of people on the platform. For a moment, he thought of leaving the tram and going after her, but the doors closed and the tram began to move. 

He regretted that young woman. Why didn't he speak to her? 'Coffee? Can I get your number?' It seemed so easy in hind-sight. He could have had some precious moments with her before this happened. 

He wondered how he would appear to her now. He knew he was badly scarred. Injuries like this could be scary for a young woman. Even with regenerative technology, burns never healed without leaving behind substantial damage. If he knew her better, he was certain it would hurt more to lose her. 

'What did it matter?' He thought. 'What if I can't fly again? What if I'm blind?' His life, his career as he knew it, gone in the brutal flash of an explosion. Worst of all, he might never see the face of the young woman on the tram again. If he survived, he feared the path of his life was irrecoverably altered. 

He was relieved to hear his rescuer's footsteps in the distance. The sound of her movement distracted him from his thoughts. She had an agile way of moving. There must have been debris scattered in her path, but her steps were light and quick. 

He heard her move near him. The faint rustling of her clothes and the sound of her diminutive frame as it settled to the ground next to him were strangely comforting. A gentle hand touched his forearm through the blanket. “Let’s hope the dispatch log was accurate. I haven't found anyone else.”

“…happening…” came the only word he could squeeze through his narrowing throat. Although the burning had faded, the swelling forced him to drag in each breath. 

“What’s happening?” The voice asked, and he tried to nod, but couldn’t. “I understand,” she said, and he felt the weight of another blanket over him. He felt her pull it over his body and adjust it. “It was a planet bomb. It hit very close to here. The Academy is too close to the surface. The most severe damage is here in the hanger area, of course. I guess we are lucky it hit at night. There was some damage to the Academy facilities below too. By now, they have rescue personnel searching the barracks.” Her hand touched his forehead. She swept his hair back with her fingers. “Try not to worry about that now. You need to rest. They’ll be coming for us soon.”

Her touch, her voice, and her presence were soothing. He relaxed as much as the faint throbbing of his injuries would allow. He had no strength to fight the gentle embrace of unconsciousness. Her hand slipped beneath the blankets and grasped his hand. His fingers tightened around hers. He knew she would stay with him now. She would watch over him while he slept. 

 

He awoke with a start. His body jerked in response to the sharp sound of static. 

“What took you so long?” The girl asked and Hardy realized the static was from a hand-held radio. He moved his fingers and felt her hand still resting over his.

“Where are you?” Came a man’s voice from the radio.

“Did you get my note?” She asked.

“'Gone fishing?' That’s a note?” The man’s voice was heated.

“It was next to the dispatch log,” she replied calmly. “I thought you'd figure it out.”

“The log for the hanger? You’re in the hanger? How did you get up there?”

“I took the elevator.”

“The power... The elevators aren’t...” The tone of his voice suddenly changed. “You climbed the elevator shaft, didn’t you?”

There was a long pause before she responded, then a click and a hiss of static. “I'm your best climber! What else am I gonna' to do?” 

“Your father is going to kill me!”

“What my Dad doesn’t know…”

“Is going to eventually come back and bite me in the butt!” 

“Are you finished?”

“For now! At least until I can get my hands around your neck!”

“I’ve got a young male, in his late teens, early twenties, I think.” Hardy moved his hand beneath hers as an affirmation. She squeezed his hand in response. “He’s suffered severe blunt trauma to his right side, including his head, but he's conscious and lucid. Contusions around the chest cavity indicate some fractured ribs. He also has chemical burns to his eyes, face, neck, and some of his upper torso. He was pretty shocky when I found him, but he’s taking fluids now. I had to give him something for the pain. There was no way around that. How soon until I can get some assistance up here?”

“I’m not sure… I'll call dispatch. There’s debris in the stairwells. You know what the elevator shafts look like. We might be able to send someone down the entrance for the runway, but we need to get some units up there to see if it’s clear. It’s a mess down here. There are a lot of injured. You may just have to sit-tight for a bit. Can you keep him stable?”

She paused before answering. Hardy sensed her hesitation. “I have another bag of saline... I’m worried about the head trauma…” Her voice faded into a growing reverberation. The rumble grew louder. The earth around them and below them began to tremble and shake. Hardy could hear the stones crack, and pieces fell around them like hail. 

He felt the girl’s body leaning over him, shielding him from the falling debris. He felt her trembling breath against his forehead. Her cool fingers touched the side of his face as she covered him. 

The thunderous sound faded, then echoed into the silence of the cavern. They were frozen for a long moment. They waited, silently. The hand-held cracked to life near Hardy’s ear.

“Did you feel that?” Came the man’s uneasy voice. 

“Yes,” she said, and Hardy felt her pull away. “Aftershock?”

“I hope so. I don’t think this place can take another direct hit right now.”

“I don't think we have much time... Whatever you are going to do... hurry.” 

“I’m on it.” A sharp click from the radio marked the end of the transmission. They were left in silence. 

A few moments passed between the pair. He couldn’t see her face, but even through the haze of the medication, the girl’s fear and apprehension washed over him. He lifted his hand from under the blankets, reaching for her. She must have put the radio down because he felt both of her hands wrap around his. “Talk to me,” he whispered to her. 

“Talk?” She replied softly. “About what?”

“Don’t… care… Like… your voice.” He was weary from the medication, but adrenaline pumped through him. She was steady and strong, but he knew he needed to occupy her mind. It was his turn to provide comfort to her. If she was anything like him, it was hard to sit still and wait. It was too easy to dwell on the situation. 

She released his hand and stood. He heard the sharp scrape of her boots on the concrete. She was sliding her feet , listening to the sound as she thought. She was like him. She couldn't sit still.

It wasn't long before his senses discovered what was making the young girl so anxious. The faint smell of smoke from a smoldering fire washed over him. He pushed the oxygen mask away from his face, sniffing the air. It was definitely smoke.

He bit his lip as his mind raced. It stopped short at one conclusion. “You have to go...” He managed strength in his voice this time. He wanted her to hear him clearly.

She cut him off with a loud retort. “That's not an option!” 

Hardy silently cursed, frustrated with the stubborn young woman. He wouldn't have her suffer the same fate. Not because of him. “Not safe...”

“Be quiet! Let me think!” There was a long pause between them. He heard faint, words from her, as if she was talking to herself, then the quick scuff of her boots faded into the distance.

Hardy listened for her after the fading footfalls. His body began to shiver again, provoked by his anxiety. He could hear only slow, rhythmic drops of liquid as they plunked into a nearby puddle. He grimly wondered if it was water from the extinguishing system or jet fuel. Maybe it was both. 

Hardy was not easily rattled. Despite his ambitions, where others his age were restless and anxious, he had an easy nature about him. These circumstances were testing every nerve and every ounce of his resolve. If it had not been for the narcotic affects of the pain medication, the sudden burst of raw, guttural noise in the distance would have propelled him to his feet, despite his restraints. 'A straining hydraulic motor?' He thought. The sound was soon joined by the ear-splitting screech of warping metal. Then, silence once more. 

To Hardy's relief, he heard the footsteps of the young woman coming closer. Her steps were slower this time, less graceful and more deliberate. She coughed as she moved toward him, an indication the smoke was getting heavy. When she returned to his side, she was winded. He heard something large and heavy drop to the concrete beside him. He pulled the mask from his face and held it out, hoping she would see it. He felt her fingers wrap around his hand. She pulled the mask toward her, and he felt her lean into it as she took a deep breath. She paused and took another breath, pulling the mask away to exhale. 

“Thank you.” She gently pushed the mask toward his face and helped him position it. 

He heard static from the hand-held again, then a click to open the channel. “Eddie?... Eddie, where's my back-up?” There was a long pause and the two of them anxiously awaited an interruption in the static. 

“They're fully involved...” The man's voice was almost timid. “Dispatch...” His voice faded.

“Dispatch what?” The woman prodded the man with her furious words. 

“Just hold tight... I'll get someone to you!” 

The woman released a sigh. Hardy sensed her frustration. “There's smoke up here, Eddie! The extinguishing system isn't responding! Is anyone coming?”

“Not yet! Dispatch said it's a matter of numbers...”

“Don't give me excuses!” She shouted into the hand-held, and he heard the radio collide with the concrete tarmac in the distance. Hardy was suddenly aware their situation was deteriorating rapidly.

After a moment, he heard her move closer to him. Her voice was softer when she spoke to him. “Listen. I thought we had more time.” She tucked a fluid-filled bag under his arm and pulled the blanket over it. He surmised it was the saline attached to his arm. There was rustling near him. The familiar click of belt clips marked her words as she spoke. “I'm going to have to move you myself.”

Hardy was silent as he listened to the efficient movements of her hands. He had no reservations about her competence, only frustration over his immobility. He winced when she pulled and tightened each strap over his legs. 

“Something else I should mention... This road's going to be a little bumpy.” She pulled a belt across his hips, pulling it snug over his pelvis. This time he cried out. The medication was wearing off. “I'm sorry! I've got to secure you to the backboard! Hang in there! I found a stretcher-basket in the wreckage of a medevac.” Hardy realized the sound of the hydraulic motor was from the ramp of a shuttle. There must have been enough power in reserve for her to open it. 

She was more careful with the belt across his chest. She pulled slowly until it was tight. She removed the oxygen mask from his face, and he heard the rustling of her bag as she stowed it with the small oxygen tank. 

She bent over him and grasped the backboard near his shoulders. She lifted the backboard under his head with a steady, controlled movement. He tensed as his body adjusted to the new angle. She set him down carefully. She moved to his legs and, in another smooth movement, she lifted the other end into the basket. He was embraced by thick, impact cushioning around him. He reached out and felt the cool, brushed aluminum of the frame surrounding him. 

He heard the sound of smooth rope sliding against the hollow aluminum tubing. He felt the gentle rocking of the stretcher-basket as she secured it. She pulled the rope tight with a sudden jerk. 

“Where... where are we going?” Hardy heard the crisp snap of carabiners and the ringing of metal implements dangling against each other. 'A harness?' He thought.

“Back the way I came... the elevator shaft!”

The stretcher moved beneath him and metal scraped against concrete. “I... I don't mean to seem ungrateful, ma'am,” Hardy spoke over the noise as another forceful jerk moved him again, “but how?” 

“Any way I can! We don't have time to consider alternatives! Let's hope I brought enough rope!”

Hardy tried to speak again, but his voice was still weak. It faded into the grating noise of the dragging stretcher.

 

The smell of smoke was stronger now. The monotonous dragging noise suddenly stopped and gave way to the distant sounds of sirens in the background. Part of the extinguishing system was still working, just not the part they needed. 

Hardy heard the woman collapse to the floor. She was coughing.

“You... alright? Hey...”

“I'm fine!... I'm alright!” She responded quickly, but paused as she tried to catch her breath. “I didn't know pilots could weigh so much!”

Hardy felt relieved. She was making jokes and it eased him. “It's... it's all muscle!” He replied. She responded with a gentle laugh, but it was interrupted by the ominous rumbling of the earth around them. 

He felt her lean over him again, shielding his head against raining debris. He reached up and touched her arm. She was trembling. 

He was aware her face was close to his. Despite the pain of the burns on his face, he could feel her breath against his skin. “Your name...” He spoke softly. He could manage complete sentences in a whisper. 

“What?” She lifted her head, but put it back down when another shower of debris hit them.

“I would like to know... your name.”

“Right...” she whispered over the sound of hailing debris hitting her back, “Jessica...”

“Jefferson Davis Hardy, ma'am. Under better circumstances... I would be at your service.” 

“Under better circumstances, we might not have met.”

“I take it, you're a glass-half-full type of person.” The rumbling continued and another shower of debris was upon them.

Finally, the noise subsided; and again, they were very still, awaiting another wave of chaos. “You don't have to do this...” He whispered to her. 

She pulled away from him, and he heard her brush the dust from her clothing and hair. “I take it, you're a glass-half-empty type of person.” 

“Ma'am?”

“Have some faith, Jefferson Davis.” She got to her feet as she spoke. “I haven't given up on you. Don't give up on me so easily.”

“I didn't mean it like...”

“We're in this together!... We're getting out of this together!” A sudden jerk set the stretcher-basket moving again and the monotonous scraping of metal against concrete continued. 

 

Getting to the crippled elevator shafts was a long and arduous process, but she was tenacious. She stopped to move debris aside, making sounds as she struggled against the weight of obstacles. Sometimes, she had to drag the stretcher-basket over large mounds of rubble, but she kept moving. 

Hardy sensed the young woman was trying to move faster now. The smell of smoke was stronger, and it was taking its toll on both of them. She coughed, and she stopped more frequently to catch her breath. Hardy's throat burned and tightened as he breathed the rancid air. 

They finally came to a stop, and Hardy sensed genuine urgency in the young woman's movements. More rope slid against the aluminum frame. Strange sounds followed: the ringing of metal against metal, sharp snaps, and soft rustling. He occupied his hazy mind, attempting to identify each of them.

One sound was familiar and menacing. It roared softly above the others. Suddenly, a wave of heat swept over them. Hardy felt a sudden change in the pressure of the air around them. 

“Jessica...” Hardy whispered.

“I know...”

“I think...”

“I know...”

The stretcher-basket moved again, slowly scraping the concrete until he felt a gentle rocking sensation. He was suddenly suspended. The ropes creaked eerily with the strain of his weight. He heard debris fall and hit far below him. The sounds echoed against the walls around them. His blindness seemed like a blessing in that moment. 

“Okay, I'm going to lower your feet! You're going down feet first! It's too narrow to keep you horizontal!”

He felt the angle of the stretcher change, inch by inch. Each movement and adjustment was slight, yet quick and deliberate. Gravity pulled at him, but he slipped very little in the padded cocoon of the stretcher. He felt the straps against his broken body and he cringed. He silently hoped it wasn't a long way down. 

The explosions began in the distance. It was a chain-reaction of thunderous noise and showering debris. The stone walls shuddered around them once more. It was more terrifying than the first time, because the dissonance approached with an ominous, angry force. 

“Jessica...” Hardy began, but his weak voice was quickly overwhelmed by the menacing roar. 

Like the stifling breath of an angry beast, a rush of heated air surged at them. Hardy clenched his fists, helplessly anticipating the violent onslaught. Another deafening roar followed. This one surrounded him and resonated through him. Suddenly, suffocating heat and debris swept down on him. The stretcher lurched ferociously then slammed hard against the wall of the elevator shaft. He felt the sensation of a sudden drop. The ropes were giving way!

The noise subsided as quickly as it had begun. He coughed hard, choking on dust, smoke, and bitter ash. “Jessica...” he tried to scream, but his words were choked by violent coughing. 

There was no response from the young woman. His only answer was the creaking of the fragile suspensions above him. They were synchronized with the gentle sway of the stretcher. 

He was trembling with pain. His breath was anxious and rapid, but as the narrow aperture of his throat slowly closed, his exhalations became feeble and weak. Exhaustion pulled at him. His extremities tingled and slowly went numb. Each breath was a struggle, until he couldn't breath anymore. The sounds around him dissipated into hollow, empty blackness. 'Finally,' he thought, 'this is what it feels like...'

 

To Be Continued

Chapter 8 – Gravity  
The only way out is the way through... but the way through has it's own challenges...


End file.
